


Emancipation

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Free Will [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Choices, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 21:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Now that their House Arrest is finally over, Mycroft and Gregory will have to figure out how to make their relationship work in the real world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So pleased to be back here with you all and this adventure. We're right back in at the deep end, I'm afraid. Keep your eyes out for the trigger warnings at each chapter and be kind to yourself. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning. Panic attack from POV.

“Sir?” Anthea’s voice broke Mycroft out of his frozen state.

“Yes.” He answered quietly, though Anthea would not be able to hear him; he was still in his bedroom, and she had never ventured further than the downstairs rooms of his home. A tacit respect for his privacy he’d never appreciated more than in this moment. A deep breath ( _not now, you have to work_ ), and Mycroft pushed his emotions away, closing the door on his weakness for now.

Anthea was waiting in the kitchen, coffee brewed on the bench, Blackberry in hand. Two new agents stood beside her - Traverson and Quinn, Mycroft thought – their stance uncomfortable, eyes flickering around the unfamiliar space. Despite quashing his emotions, Mycroft was irritated at their awkwardness. The reasonable part of his mind told him they were still learning how their body language would influence others – hence this low risk assignment. His reputation as an unforgiving boss was well known and from the apprehensive looks they were flicking his way, both men were aware of it.

“Well?” Mycroft addressed Anthea. He had far more confidence in her assessment than either Traverson or Quinn, both of whom would have been given a superficial briefing to test their analytical ability. He accepted the folder of papers Anthea offered and immediately began to scan them, turning away slightly as he concentrated.

“And Sherlock?”

“He and Doctor Watson have returned to Baker Street,” replied Anthea. Mycroft raised one eyebrow in her direction, which Anthea correctly interpreted as a request for further information. “Baker Street has been thoroughly swept and the usual security measures are back in place. Your brother has approved it this time,” she added.

Mycroft ignored the wry tone in her voice. “No echoes?” he asked.

“None.”

The answer was confident, but Mycroft still had reservations. Their intelligence network was extensive, and even the smallest whispers would be heard. Echoes – those whispers related to dead or presumably dead targets, such as those lately of the Tasman gang – would alert Mycroft of any residual threat. Occasionally low level people would get ambitious after seeing the upper tiers of the organisation disintegrate; it was in the country’s best interest to quell these before they grew enough to constitute a real threat. Nevertheless, the potential was enough to warrant Mycroft’s personal attention.

“Maintain vigilant surveillance on Baker Street and its tenants,” Mycroft said absently. “And the prisoner?”

“Reluctant,” Anthea admitted. Mycroft flicked through his notes, scanning the medical report. A few broken bones, bruises and abrasions. Nothing that would impede…persuasion. Closing the folder, Mycroft tapped one finger on the cover absently. He wondered what Gregory was doing. _No_. Trying to shake the thought off, Mycroft brought himself back to this moment. He turned, smoothing his hand on the table, feeling the cool wood under his palm, buying time. For a long, panicked moment, Mycroft’s mind was blank. Gregory’s face blocked out everything else – all his experience, the protocols, the years of training…

With a supreme effort, Mycroft pushed the image from his mind. “We should go.”

It was odd to turn around and see three people; Mycroft realised he’d blocked out Traverson and Quinn as he spoke to Anthea. It had been at least twenty days since he had been in the company of more than one person (to his best knowledge – for once his sense of time was distorted and his recollection was less than precise). The brief moments in which Anthea had appeared barely counted; now, he was hyper aware of having so many other people around. Without thinking, his mind began to analyse the visual cues and clues of the unfamiliar people. It was startling to realise how quiet his mind had become without the constant stream of information provided by his background deductions. Apart from the lack of other people to deduce, Mycroft realised for the first time that his subconscious deductions has ceased with Gregory around. There had been no need; Gregory had been sincere and genuine – there were no ulterior motives to subtly deduce and compare to his speech. His body language had always been completely consistent with his words, and evidently Mycroft’s subconscious had learned to...trust. _Trust_.

“Sir?”

Again, Anthea pulled him out of his reverie. Mycroft blinked and flashed her an insincere smile. “Yes.” Unconsciously he repeated his earlier response. “We should go.”

He was not the same person, Mycroft was realising – as before the house arrest, as five minutes ago. The Mycroft from Before had begun to reassert himself. The change was unsettling and not entirely welcome.

+++

The car ride was silent; Mycroft was grateful to Anthea for booking two cars, allowing him space to breathe without the other two agents present. It was odd enough simply sitting in the vehicle. His body moved automatically, head ducking as he slid across the smooth leather. The shape of the seat hit his body in unfamiliar places; at the same time, he twisted, hand reaching for the seatbelt without thinking. The motion was a strange combination of familiar and unfamiliar, like a photograph viewed after many years. He shifted uncomfortably, opening the folder again to avoid looking out the tinted windows. The day was overcast and drizzly but the natural light was still glaring, pressing against his eyes differently through these windows than those at home. _When you were with Gregory_.

Ah.

It was Gregory’s absence that was setting him on edge. It was surprising how accustomed Mycroft had become to his presence in the relatively short time they’d spent in his flat. He shook his head slightly. Now was hardly the time to pine. He had a job to do, a threat to categorically neutralise to keep Gregory safe. The interview itself would not be complex – this man was hardly a criminal mastermind, but he _was_ the only lead they had on further information. Mycroft knew it was a job for which numerous others were qualified, but with so much at stake – namely his brother and Gregory – Mycroft would not trust it to anyone else. Once it was done he could turn his attention to Gregory, to call and request they have dinner, perhaps at the Diogenes Club? There he could draw on his courage and instigate the conversation they should have had yesterday. Surely then the discomfort would be alleviated, and he would know either way – if he and Gregory were to go their separate ways or attempt to forge a more lasting relationship. It had not sounded as though Greg favoured their separation when they had last spoken. There was, of course, the possibility Greg would change his mind, would prefer to have a simple uncomplicated relationship with a simple uncomplicated person. The idea made Mycroft’s skin prickle with anxiety.

No. Determinedly, Mycroft put his attention to the task at hand. He needed to extract as much information as possible from this individual. It would ensure he was safe. That Sherlock was safe. That Gregory was safe. Keeping that goal firmly in his mind, Mycroft forced himself to concentrate.

+++

The remainder of the trip passed smoothly – at least he didn’t notice it passing. Mycroft thought of Gregory only as motivation to focus on the task at hand, allowing himself no daydreams. He reviewed the extended files Anthea had in the car. All the known facts about the Tasman Gang, anything that might be used as leverage in this interview. Facts he could compare to statements made to check veracity; hypothesised alliances within the group that could be exploited. This would not be a difficult interview, yet Mycroft was taking no chances. He was so engrossed in developing his strategy that the stillness of the stationary vehicle took some time to sink in. It was only when Quinn tapped on the glass of the window Mycroft looked up, blinking to refocus his eyes. Seeing the blank face of the man on the wrong side of one way glass, Mycroft turned his gaze to Anthea, disapproval in his eyes at the interruption. She had been waiting patiently, knowing the rhythms of Mycroft’s working habits. He would be done when he was done, regardless of their arrival.

“I know,” she said. “They’ll learn.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft hummed in dissatisfaction. He knew Anthea was also unhappy with the clearly inexperienced young men; at least he didn’t have to trust his life to either of them today. Hesitating, Mycroft’s hand brushed his mobile phone. He needed to speak to Gregory, to hear his voice. Inadvisable right now, of course; not only was Anthea here but it was very likely Gregory was not in a position to answer. He would have been taken to a secure facility for his debriefing, which was almost laughable, given the abrupt manner in which he’d been whisked away from his life and more or less incarcerated at Mycroft’s house. He wouldn’t know anything worthwhile. Mycroft found himself hoping the interview wouldn’t be too arduous for him.

Before he could waste any more time musing over what may or may not be happening, Mycroft collected his papers and unclipped his seatbelt, throwing the door open and stepping outside.

It was the first time he’d been outside in almost a month.

It was louder than he remembered. More open.

And brighter.

And the people.

_Oh…_

Even on this relatively quiet street, there were so many people. Mycroft felt his eyes flick unconsciously from one to another, torrents data flowing into his brain without filter. Blinking did not stem the barrage; his mind moved too fast, collecting information in between the rapid motion of his eyelids. He looked around, hoping to find something on which to focus, but the movement and colour were distracting; bits and pieces of information, deductions so fast he couldn’t follow them flooded his brain.

_Recently made redundant. Two cats. Children. Secret lover. Banker. Hiding a serious illness. Eggs for breakfast._

“Ahhhh,” Mycroft exhaled desperately, unable to even begin processing all the irrelevant information. His brain had leapt back to full capacity deduction immediately, flooding him with essentially extraneous information about every person he passed. Essentially, his filters weren’t up and everything was getting though. Normally he was able to control his mind for these brief periods in which he was exposed to so many irrelevant people. His skill was useful in the politics of his job; he could assess a dozen delegates at once, determining the best plan to exploit whatever information he could deduce.

But this was different.

Overwhelming.

Too much.

Given the choice, Mycroft’s subconscious would chose flight over fight every time.

Without warning he turned and strode off, clutching the papers in his hand, ignoring the startled shout of Quinn (or was it Traverson? He wasn’t actually sure which was which when it came down to it). At least the newly minted agent had the sense not to grab him. Walking fast, head down to avoid triggering deductions, Mycroft struggled to orient himself, moving on instinct, choosing the paths that took him away from as many people as possible. The frantic thoughts flowing through his mind were about space to breathe, space to think, and a thrumming background of _Gregory, Gregory, Gregory_ in the same cadence as his desperate breathing. Mycroft found himself down dead ends often, heart thumping as he hoped nobody would catch him up. Spying a dumpster, his trembling fingers took the SIM card from his phone. Before he could throw it away, Mycroft hesitated then replaced it in his pocket, keeping the battery separated from the phone instead of discarding either. That should slow Anthea, at least, the last vestiges of his rational brain declared. Clutching his papers and agonisingly aware of his own breathing, Mycroft kept moving, wincing as he brushed against someone on a quieter street; reeling back at the avalanche of deductions when he had no choice but to look up. He had little awareness of his location and that fact alone was disorienting, let alone the pounding pulse in his temple. Still he stumbled along, searching for somewhere he could stop and close his eyes, collect his shattered nerves.

At last he reached a public park, bounded by a steel picket fence. Ducking inside, Mycroft found a secluded spot behind a tree, fingers skimming along the rough bark as he cowered into the protected space, mostly dry from the drizzle. While it was possible Anthea had followed him with CCTV, it would take some time to pinpoint his location. With trembling hands, Mycroft rolled up the papers he still held, tucking them inside his coat. Losing them was more than his job was worth. Leaning against the tree, he loosened his tie, drawing cool air into his lungs in long shaking breaths, controlling his muscles, denying the frantic need to breathe shallow and fast. His eyes were unfocussed and the blurry green above was interspersed with blindingly white light where the daylight pushed through the leaves. Mycroft allowed himself to remain so for several moments before he took one final conscious breath and pushed against the tree, standing upright once again. He needed a plan. Sheltered as this park was, Anthea would find him soon, and he was not yet prepared to return to work, to the inescapable push of people and information. It would take some effort to calm his brain down to the point where he could conduct this interview. Even now, as he ran one hand over his damp hair, Mycroft could feel his fingers shaking. Blinking slowly, he considered his options.

He could find a telephone and call Anthea, continue his day as planned. Nobody would reference this incident without his permission, he knew. _Deeply uncomfortable, almost impossible._

He could find somewhere to wait, somewhere he would be found, but not too quickly. _Possible but not preferable._

He could continue to hide. Realistically, the longer he was in absentia, the more significant the search would become – and really that meant more people knowing his shameful secret. _The least preferable option._

Option two, then. Having a plan, something with which he was not completely uncomfortable, made him feel more centred. In control, at least marginally. Mycroft stood up straight and turned, looking around the tree to try and identify his location. He’d barely noticed the buildings on his way in, but now he saw the tall red bricked building across the street, Union Jack flying from the first floor level. Squinting, he could make out the street name on the corner of the building. Tufton Street. Immediately a map of London rose in his mind. Ah, he must be in St. John’s Gardens. Westminster, which made sense given where he’d started. The rain had stopped, he could see, though the park still bore the saturated colours of recent precipitation.

As he considered the locations close by judging the pros and cons of each, Mycroft gave into the urge and allowed Greg’s face to rise in his mind. He wanted to see that face, hear the quiet words of reassurance in that rough accent. To know that they still meant something to each other. Mycroft sighed, but before he could sink into melancholy, his mind offered a solution. A conversation had, a chance memory shared.

Lambeth Bridge was close. If he could get there without being identified – difficult but not impossible – Anthea might not be able to find him. There was no way she knew of his connection to the bridge. Surely she would think to contact Gregory?

While he had faith in Anthea’s analytical capabilities, on this Mycroft was not prepared to take a chance. Hedging his bets was something Mycroft was well versed in doing. He needed to be sure Anthea would find Greg, and that he would remember their conversation. There was nothing he could do about the second condition, but the first he could influence. Quickly reassembling his phone, Mycroft sent a single, short message before pulling it apart once again. She would be able to get a general idea of his location but it couldn’t be helped. She would have traced him here fairly soon, anyway.

_Gregory will know where. MH_

Standing, Mycroft considered his appearance. He would need to look considerably different to fool the CCTV. As his fingers worked, his mind laid out a route between this park and the bridge, one which eluded as many cameras as possible and shielded his face from the unavoidable ones. It would be circuitous but with luck he would be able to make it there without being identified. Seen, yes, but not identified. He removed his tiepin and cufflinks, placing them carefully in his wallet. Coat and jacket were a problem. They could not be worn or carried, but was loath to leave them behind. As his eyes roamed restlessly, Mycroft saw a young man walking through the park. Good suit but several seasons old; newer shoes, but less expensive. Backpack, helmet. Bicycle commuter, then. And in need of money.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft said, approaching the man. “Might I offer to purchase your backpack?”

The man looked at him a little warily, but answered. “My backpack? Seriously?”

“I will give you two hundred pounds right now for your backpack.” Mycroft said, removing the banknotes from his wallet and holding them out. He did not have time or energy to enter into a conversation. With relief he watched the young man promptly turn out the backpack, stuffing items into his pockets and into a small plastic bag.

“A further fifty for your, er, jacket,” Mycroft added, as a thin plastic garment appeared.

“My poncho,” the man corrected, handing it over with a puzzled grin.

He handed over the backpack with a “Cheers, mate,” and continued on his way with a last amused look at Mycroft and an armload of his own belongings.

Folding his jacket and coat was a tricky job; the drycleaner would certainly despair at the wrinkles in the expensive fabric. Mycroft finally elected to roll them together before sliding them into the cheap backpack, easing the zipper past so teeth did not catch on the papers also stowed within. The poncho was still damp from recent use, but it would be an excellent cover and plausible in the current weather. He pulled on the backpack, shifting its unfamiliar weight on his shoulders until it wasn’t too uncomfortable. The poncho went over the top, covering the backpack and his head while leaving his arms free. Uneasy as it made him, bare arms would be another subtle indicator that this person was definitely not Mycroft Holmes. It was hot under the poncho too and he needed the cool air on his arms to counter the trapped body heat. With an effort, Mycroft took a deep breath and relaxed his spine, imitating the easy stroll of a much younger man. There were plenty of tourists around, and a backpack with a poncho over it would not draw attention as long as the person wearing it was young and unhurried, looking around at the wonders of the city. With a last thought, Mycroft removed his watch, stowing it in his pocket. It was far too expensive for the persona he was impersonating. He mentally reviewed his route, and stepped out of the park, heart pounding as he committed himself to this course of action. Towards Gregory, he thought to himself, the thought calming as he struggled to slow his steps.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg frowned as the debriefing interviewer asked the same question for the fifth time. “I’ve already answered that, mate,” he said. “Look, I know you’ve gotta make sure my story’s consistent and all that. But it comes down to one thing: I had no idea about any of this,” he waved one arm around the tiny interview room, “until some thug basically kidnapped me off the street.”

The interviewer, a generically handsome man in a nondescript blue suit, gave Greg the same blank look he’d been wearing for the past two hours. “If you could answer the question, sir,” he said once more.

“No.”

The man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You asked me to answer the question. The answer to the question, ‘Can you think of any actions you may have taken to draw attention from the Tasman gang?’ is, ‘No.’”

Once again the interviewer blinked. _God,_ thought Greg, _this guy doesn’t even have a decent rhythm I can work with_. He couldn’t decide if that made him really good or really bad at his job.

“Would you like to expand on that, sir?”

Greg sat back and folded his arms. “I already have. At length. Several times.” Before the other man could speak, he added, “And if you believe I haven’t worked out this is being video and audio recorded, and your note-taking is a stalling tactic, you’ve forgotten who you’re interviewing, mate.” At this point, he was getting pretty irritated. The ‘mate’ was less than friendly and leaned more towards an insult by now; Greg was self-aware enough to know that part of his irritation was the fact that he hadn’t had a break. Good thing he didn’t smoke anymore, and he’d turned down the coffee at the start of the interview. It was the longest time in three weeks or so he’d not spoken to Mycroft, and it set his teeth on edge. Not a second where he could even send a quick text to make sure he was okay, assuming there was any reception in this building. “I’ll keep answering your questions if you like, but I have nothing new to tell you.”

Clearing his throat, the interviewer glanced down at his notes, then back at Greg who was throwing him a knowing smirk. “Right. Well if we can just go through a few more answers, then.”

“Fire away, sunshine,” said Greg. There was obviously nothing he could do to speed the process up, so he might as well see how good this guy was. Now that he’d decided he wasn’t going to use up energy trying to find the magic answer to secure his release, he could relax, too.

“Have you ever knowingly had contact with any member of the Tasman Gang?”

“Yes.”

“Would you expand on that?”

“No.”

The man sighed. “Have you ever knowingly had contact with any member of the Tasman Gang, outside your official capacity as a member of New Scotland Yard?”

Greg grinned. This might actually be fun. “No.”

“Can you describe these interactions?”

“Yes.”

“Will you?” he was sounding irritated already, Greg heard. Amateur, then.

“No.”

“Mr. Lestrade-”

“It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, actually.” Greg smirked again, folding his hands behind his head. “Why don’t you read back over your notes?” Greg suggested. “Pretty sure we’ve already covered this.”

“Mr. Les-“

“Detective Inspector.”

“Detective Inspector. If you could-”

“No.”

Giving up the battle, the interviewer carefully set down his pen and lay his hands on his papers. _Awesome_ , thought Greg, as the man’s mid-brown eyes met his, _he’s going for the intimidating silence_. _I can work with that._ Without moving a muscle, Greg met his gaze, and dusted off a little-used skill, honed over many years turning down drug dealers and street thugs in his early teenage years.

He stared. Without blinking.

It wasn’t completely comfortable, but Greg knew from experience that a man in his position was supposed to be uncomfortable. If it had all been going according to the textbook, which it was certainly not for this guy, Greg should be sweating, shifting his weight, unable to hold eye contact. Attempting to re-engage the conversation.

But Greg just sat. Still and silent, body slumped a little in the uncomfortable straight backed chair as though it was a cushy recliner, arms beginning to ache as they remained locked above his head.

If this kid wanted to play, Greg was all for it. After the difficult farewell with Mycroft, all he wanted was to get in contact again so they could talk. This time, he wouldn’t wait for Mycroft to broach the subject of their relationship. He’d jump right in. After a hug, and possibly a long, slow kiss. It was still odd to be in a room without Mycroft, knowing he wasn’t even in the same building. Greg’s mind began to wander as he thought about Mycroft and what he might be doing. Hopefully not the same thing as Greg. Surely his debrief would be a smoother process. Perhaps he could come and rescue Greg, then. An entertaining fantasy began to play out in his mind, involving Mycroft sweeping in wearing a white military uniform like Richard Gere in that movie from the 80’s.

“Was something amusing?” The voice broke the silence, and Greg blinked without thinking. He was momentarily disoriented until he realised the interviewer had spoken. _You flinched_ , he thought. Greg didn’t speak, just raised an eyebrow. He was done talking, he decided.

“Mr. Le-Detective Inspector. Perhaps we could finish this debrief?”

Greg smirked. It was kind of nice to be on the other side of this, he decided. And he hadn’t even had to break any laws to do it.

Just as the interviewer looked as though he was about to throw something, or possibly cry, the door opened and Anthea walked in.

“You are no longer required,” she said to the interviewer, turning her back on him as soon as she’d spoken.

“Wha-who are you?” he blustered, standing up in a futile attempt to dominate the space. Anthea wasn’t tall, but she was a match for him in height, plus she didn’t even turn around when he spoke. _Another strike against his tactics_ , Greg thought. _This guy really needs to evaluate his career choice._

“This is Anthea,” Greg introduced her. It was interesting to see the slightly panicked bluster drain out of the man; her name was obviously well known enough that he didn’t question it, just bolted. Greg sat up, stretched and grabbed the note papers, flicking through the gibberish.

“I knew it was a gimmick,” he said to the interviewer before turning to Anthea. “I assume you’re here from Mycroft, then?”

Anthea didn’t speak. She put a small black device on the table and switched it on before speaking. A red light glowed on the side. “You shouldn’t have said my name,” she told him. “I would prefer my presence here go unrecorded.”

“Right,” Greg replied. “I’ll assume this is jamming the recording devices, then?”

“Correct.”

“And destroying at least some of the previous recordings, or there’s going to be a minute or so of you walking into the room and flicking this on before the end of the tape.”

She looked at him assessingly. “Also correct.” He had the odd impression he had earned some kudos there somehow.

“So, what’s the word from Mycroft?” Greg asked. Anthea didn’t seem in a rush to get out of here. He hope the plan wasn’t ‘keep Greg contained under some ruse’. He’d had enough of this charade, and was increasingly impatient to be reunited with Mycroft. A flicker of insecurity made him wonder if Mycroft was equally irritable after their enforced separation, but he pushed it firmly aside for the moment.

“Mycroft is…not currently under our umbrella of coverage,” Anthea said carefully.

Greg stared at her. “What?”

She sighed, and for the first time, the professional exterior cracked a little. “He’s gone. Stepped out of the car at his office and just…bolted.”

“Bolted?” Greg’s mind was scrambling to keep up. “Didn’t anyone follow him?”

“The men accompanying Mycroft are…inexperienced.” She admitted. “One was still in the car, the other froze.”

“Surely you could follow him on CCTV,” Greg said.

“Normally yes. Mycroft is adept at evasion.” She sounded almost apologetic, Greg realised.

“GPS in his phone?”

“He’s removed the SIM card and battery. No way to track it.”

“There’s not some kind of implant or something?” Greg tried to joke.

“Its use is strictly regulated,” Anthea replied with such a deadpan delivery Greg wasn’t sure if she was serious or not.

“So you have no idea where he is.” Greg clarified once more.

“Nobody but you and I have that information right now.” Anthea said. “I tracked him myself until he was gone. Suffice it to say, the Tasman gang isn’t the only group who would appreciate an opportunity to find Mycroft unaccompanied.”

Greg nodded. The initial shot of adrenaline had settled down into the steady thrum he associated with a live crime scene. “Where did you last see him?”

Anthea pulled out a tablet and showed him. It was an area in Westminster, full of one way streets and dead ends. “And he walked…where?”

“Our office is on this street,” Anthea said, adding, “congratulations on your new clearance. That’s classified, so you know.” She pointed to the map. “I tracked him along this route.” As Greg stared at the red track, it made no sense. There was no pattern to it; even a man deliberately trying to lose a tail wouldn’t take such a circuitous route, in and out of dead ends. It finished in a park in Westminster. Mycroft was usually considered, careful, logical. This route was panicked and random. Something was wrong.

“When was he last seen?” Greg asked, ignoring his pounding heart. He’d pushed aside his fear in favour of his professional demenour.

“An hour ago,” Anthea admitted. At Greg’s raised eyebrow, she defended herself. “I reviewed footage for three blocks in every direction and walked through the park myself. He’s not there.”

Greg nodded. He tapped the map for a moment, thinking. “Why did you come to me?” he asked suddenly. He was glad she had, of course – but surely there were people who would do this? More qualified with a higher security clearance, for a start.

“It’s important this stays quiet,” she said. “You’re actually quite experienced with this kind of thing, and I thought Mycroft might have mentioned something that might give you a clue.”

“Okay,” Greg said. It sounded reasonable and he was hardly going to argue his way out of the loop. He thought he could read between the lines there: _I knew you’d be worried and that will motivate you. And you and he are close – you might have information other people do not have_. If Mycroft had stopped somewhere, there was an excellent chance he was pulling himself together, stopping and thinking. Being rational. If Anthea had no idea where he was headed, she would go to someone else he knew well. Christ, and Greg was the first on the list? His heart ached for Mycroft, so isolated from intimacy that even a new acquaintance such as Greg would rank so highly. And then another thought occurred to him.

“He told you to find me, didn’t he?” Greg didn’t look up, but he saw Anthea nod her head. Okay. That meant Mycroft was heading somewhere specific, somewhere Greg would know about. Somewhere he’d mentioned in the past few weeks. As he thought about this, and their hours and hours of conversation, his eyes roved over the map, restless as his mind raced. Suddenly a name jumped out at him. Instantly, he was back in Mycroft’s home, slumped against the floor after that mind blowing sex, Mycroft’s voice echoing in his mind. He stabbed at the screen with certainty.

“If you’re going to dramatically break me out of here, now’s your moment,” Greg told her. She picked up her device and opened the door for him. It was less dramatic than he’d pictured but just as effective – he simply trailed behind her as she strode unimpeded through the hallways and offices until they reached an underground carpark.

“The driver will take you wherever you need to go,” Anthea told him as he opened the door to the black towncar.

“Right.” Greg said. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Greg slid into the car and told the driver, “Lambeth Bridge. West end, thanks mate.” It was closer to where Mycroft had been found than Westminster Bridge, and it felt more right. He just hoped that whatever had spooked Mycroft was gone. Peering at his phone (Anthea had unceremoniously appropriated is personal belongings on their way out), Greg saw there was a park on either side of the bridge at the West end. They weren’t large; according to GoogleMaps, one contained a children’s playground, the other was smaller and sunken from the road. When they arrived, Greg turned instinctively to the smaller, more secluded space.

“Cheers, mate, can you wait around here somewhere?” Greg asked the driver.

“Of course, sir. I’ll park on Millbank Road,” he said, indicating the high road.

Greg looked around, getting a feel for the place. Peering over the railing at the space below, he saw that it was theoretically possible for Mycroft to be literally under the bridge. All things considered, it was unlikely he’d chose the wet, stony ground revealed by the low tide. At least, Greg hoped he wasn’t there. It looked bloody uncomfortable, and the tide would come in eventually. He turned instead to the park. It was more sheltered here, hidden from the road by a drop of at least six feet and tall trees. Greg started down the steps, heart pounding. He scanned the nearest bench seat – empty – but the next held a man with a familiar posture. It wasn’t the stiff upright posture Greg would have associated with him before their house arrest – to anybody who only knew that Mycroft, this man might escape notice completely. It was the slump of the man who’d watched hours and hours of CrossFit with Greg; who’d collapsed satiated into his lovers’ arms. Greg walked slowly and carefully, eyes taking in the changed appearance. Coat and jacket discarded, possibly in the backpack at his feet; shirtsleeves rolled messily up, no tie ( _he must be freezing_ ). As he moved closer, more details became apparent. Mycroft’s hair was glistening with water, the carefully arranged strands now curling around each other. His expression was neutral, but Greg read despair and resignation there anyway. Christ.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked carefully. He had no idea of Mycroft’s mental state and the last thing he wanted to do was startle him.

When Mycroft looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and he looked exhausted. “Gregory.” It was a statement, and it sounded resigned to something unpleasant. He looked back down at his hands, clenched together over a folder of papers now crinkled and damp. Greg took a second to text Anthea – _Found him_ – then replaced his phone and focussed again on the defeated looking man before him.

“May I sit down?” Greg asked. Despite their closeness while in Mycroft’s house, he had no idea where they stood right now. Plus they were in a public park and he thought it was fairly likely that Mycroft was not big on public displays of affection.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied automatically. They sat in silence for a few moments, the cold seeping into Greg’s body from the seat. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft suppress a shiver.

“You must be cold,” Greg said. When Mycroft didn’t reply, he added, “Can I suggest we relocate to somewhere warmer?”

“I think,” Mycroft said, in the careful, slightly strangled tones of someone fighting to keep their composure, “I would actually like to go home.”

“Of course,” Greg replied. “There’s a car up there,” he indicated the road above them. “Do you need…” he mimed helping Mycroft stand up, but he was waved off. Nevertheless, he hovered anxiously as Mycroft stood slowly, legs stiff, and began to walk back towards the steps, backpack swinging awkwardly from his hand.

“Thought for a moment you might actually be under the bridge.” Greg remarked, trying to lighten a mood that was threatening to become heavy and somber. “Wasn’t looking forward to trying to convince you out of there.”

Mycroft shuddered. “It would have to be dire indeed for me to seek refuge in such a place.” They made their way slowly up the stairs, Greg watching closely as Mycroft set his jaw, the effort clear in his face. The car was parked close, illegally so but Greg was far more grateful than disapproving. Surely Mycroft could park his car anywhere he wanted in the city. As far as Greg was concerned he could, at least.

“Home please,” Greg told the driver. “Mr. Holmes’ home, I mean.” The awkward phase would have drawn a grin and a joke from him at any other time, but Mycroft had started to shiver in the relative protection of the car. Greg found the button to put up the privacy screen then slid across the seat, wrapping his arms around Mycroft. He was half braced to be shoved away with a hissed comment about the inappropriateness of a car for this kind of thing. To Greg’s intense relief, Mycroft melted into him, turning to press his face into Greg’s chest, breathing deeply as though he’d just spent two minutes underwater. Greg felt the tension leave his own body and he pulled Mycroft closer again, rubbing at his arms to try and get the warmth back in them. There would be time for words, but right now this was just what they needed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter (major plot point spoiler). See notes at the end of the chapter for details if you’re concerned this might affect you. NOT MCD, abuse of any kind or self-harm of any kind.
> 
>  
> 
>  

 

The driver returned them to Mycroft’s house and Greg thanked him profusely, telling him they were done for the rest of the day. He ignored the faint look of surprise on Mycroft’s face, instead choosing to notice the relief that replaced it.

“Well here we are again,” Greg tried to joke, as they stood in the kitchen. Mycroft had put down his folder and jacket. Intermittent shivers still wracked his body, and his eyes roamed, unfocussed. He didn’t speak. “We should get you warmed up,” Greg said to Mycroft. “How about you have a hot shower while I-”

“No.” Mycroft said. It was the first word he’d spoken since their brief exchange in the park, and it sounded more than a little panicked. Greg waited, wondering if there would be more. He watched Mycroft take a deep breath, eyes pinned on Greg. “Will you come with me?”

“Yeah, of course,” answered Greg, immediately stepping closer. He took Mycroft’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and smiled at him. Mycroft’s return smile was wavering and brief before he turned and they made their way slowly up to Mycroft’s bathroom. There was still some doubt in Greg’s mind about exactly where they stood. _I’ll call you_ , he’d said. He’d seen the uncertainty still in Mycroft’s eyes, but there had been no time for further reassurances in that moment. If things had gone to plan, he’d have called Mycroft today; it had taken only a few moments riding in that first car away from Mycroft for him to realise what an idiot he had been. He’d missed Mycroft immediately; why had he not just _told_ him so? And while he still wasn’t sure how Mycroft felt about him, it was becoming evident whatever happened today to provoke Mycroft into running off, he still wanted Greg around. He’d sought out the place nobody would think to look unless they knew that story – hell, he’d told Anthea to find him – and Greg sure as hell knew Mycroft didn’t share silly stories from his childhood with just any random person. Probably not with anyone. Ever.

No more waiting. Now was the time to show Mycroft. No, not just show, because that was what he had been trying to do, and Mycroft still wasn’t sure, still had the doubt behind his eyes when Greg smiled at him. Greg had to tell him, to wipe away anything inside Mycroft that still doubted Greg was invested in whatever this was. And ‘whatever this was’ needed to go, too; they needed to be on the same page, openly and without reservations. Greg knew it was his turn now. Mycroft had been too frightened to start that conversation so it was up to Greg to find the words.

When they reached the bathroom, Mycroft reached for his shirt buttons, still shivering. His fingers were clumsy, and Greg reached automatically over to help. He’d done a few before he realised how stiffly Mycroft was standing; Greg froze.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed. His head was still bowed as he watched Greg work, and it wasn’t until Greg was rolling Mycroft’s sleeves down so he could slip off the damp shirt Mycroft spoke again. “There were a lot of people on the street today.”

It was a carefully neutral comment, Greg noticed. Frowning a little, he attempted to decode it, putting aside his own conversational agenda for the moment. “I didn’t actually go out. Just garage to garage. Must have been strange after so long shut up here with just me.”

Mycroft nodded, a jerk of his head that spoke volumes. Greg considered it while he turned on the shower, letting the water run as hot as he dared. Finally the penny dropped.

Ah, Greg thought. “More than strange, then?”

Another jerk. This time Mycroft’s teeth worried at his lower lip before he spoke. “Too much information. Overwhelming.”

“Oh, gorgeous,” Greg sighed, dropping Mycroft’s shirt on the floor. The realisation made him physically reel – Mycroft had panicked. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around Mycroft, pulling him close. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was a little muffled where his face was pressed into Greg’s shoulder. He could feel the warm breath through his shirt, warmer than the curls of steam beginning to envelope them.

“No, but I can wish it hadn’t happened,” Greg replied. “Is that why…did you need some space?”

Greg felt the nod this time, Mycroft’s cheek rubbing against his shirt. He closed his eyes, gripping tighter as lightheadedness pulled him a little off balance. Greg was surprised at his own reaction – it had been clear since they’d first met Mycroft wasn’t really comfortable around crowds, why was this news affecting him so much? To Greg, the public mask had been obvious, a cover for someone far less at ease than he let on. That mask had been gone for a while now, as Greg had been allowed in, and he’d almost forgotten how hard Mycroft had to work in order to function around other people. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes; God, was he crying?

Greg blinked hard, still holding onto Mycroft, whose face was buried in his shoulder. The basin on the far side of the room was blurry, but he couldn’t feel the tell-tale prickle behind his eyes, nor the rush of warmth to his face that usually accompanied emotional tears. Frowning a little, Greg stepped back, reaching up to rub at his eyes with both hands. As he did the room spun lazily and he staggered a little, one hand grabbing forward while the other still pressed fingers into his eyes.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was questioning, but Greg was concentrating on the alarming wrongness of his body. He tightened his grip on whatever it was – an arm? – willing the vertigo away. He opened his eyes again, blinking hard. Still blurry, even at two paces, as Mycroft’s anxious face was.

“Sorry, just a bit…” Greg stopped. The words tasted wrong. Tasted wrong? His tongue was wrong, too big in his mouth, too slow to respond. Not right…

“I’m…something’s wrong,” was what Greg tried to say, but the words were accurate – there was something wrong with his responses. His mouth wasn’t working properly. The words sounded thick and unclear, and the vertigo was worse now, his head swimming as though he was drunk. His whole left side was tingling and weak. Greg felt himself sliding, but it was like an out of body experience, the room receding, nothing feeling as it should. He thought he should be more worried, but couldn’t remember why; the man standing over him looked worried enough for both of them. Maybe that was because he was so blurry.

+++

Mycroft’s mind had been slow, exhausted as he was after the most stressful morning he could remember. The relief when Gregory had found him was like a balm; he’d simply given himself over to the other man, grateful to be brought home. When Gregory had made the ludicrous suggestion for them to separate, Mycroft’s reaction had been instinctive. He needed to be close to Gregory. Different rooms was unacceptable. And so they stood, quiet and close in the swirling steam as Mycroft breathed in the now familiar scent, drawing it into his soul, healing the cracks he’d felt rupturing him earlier.

Gregory. _Gregory._

His mind had finally settled, the slow vacillation of the last few days ending as he settled on the name he’d been given rare permission to use. He marvelled again at Gregory’s grace, the gentle smile that had crossed his face as he’d allowed Mycroft to call him by his full name, granted the approval given to nobody else. The decision sent a flush of calm over him as though he’d accepted the depth of their connection.

It was better. So much better.

And then it wasn’t.

It happened fast. Gregory held him tight, which was good, reassuring; then he staggered, pressing on his eyes. His speech was slurred, and as Mycroft watched he slid to the floor, blinking rapidly, confusion on his abnormally asymmetrical face.

“Gregory?” Mycroft asked, praying this was a joke, an allergic reaction, an overly emotional response. He knew it wasn’t; his mind had already told him what was happening.

Stroke. Gregory was having a stroke.

Without even thinking Mycroft helped him lay down so he didn’t fall any further, then scrambled into the bedroom, slamming his hand on the panic button hidden behind his side of the bed. Breathing hard he bolted back, knowing the response team would be there in minutes. As he cradled Gregory’s head, watching him slip in and out of consciousness, Mycroft whispered to him, hardly aware of the words he was forming. Nonsense, half-hysterical reproaches at Gregory’s timing, no heat behind the recriminations, just desperate for his voice to penetrate Gregory’s consciousness, to guide him back.

To be the last thing-

NO.

Silly ideas, plans for the future, from the rest of that day to Christmas night. Assurances he would be alright stuck in Mycroft’s tightening throat but he forced them out, wanting his voice to heal Gregory as Gregory had healed him, knowing it wasn’t possible but wishing anyway.

The noise from the team bursting into the flat was abrupt. Mycroft didn’t bother calling out; he knew they would make their way upstairs to the room in which the alarm had been raised. When he saw the first man enter his bedroom, Mycroft called out, “In here. He’s having a stroke.”

“Stand down! Medic!” the man roared. Someone else entered the room, shoving Mycroft aside none too gently; they were looking at Gregory, assessing him, barking orders to the two following, already assembling a collapsible stretcher on which Gregory was being loaded.

Mycroft tasted blood as he bit down hard on the inside of his lip, forestalling his urge to beg and plead for Gregory’s life. They would do their utmost, whether or not Mycroft embarrassed himself with an overly emotional display. He took a shaky breath, watching the men work efficiently, one speaking into a microphone, none paying any attention to Mycroft.

 “We’ll take him to St John and St Elizabeth’s,” the man said to someone outside, following the stretcher out, leaving Mycroft sitting alone on the bathroom floor. When Anthea walked in, he had no idea how long he had sat there; the sounds of the team leaving had faded and it was silent apart from her heels on the Italian tiles. She looked completely at ease in his private bathroom, ignoring the strange sight he must make.

“May I suggest a clean shirt, sir?” Anthea asked, reaching in to turn off the shower, which was still gushing hot water and steam.

Mycroft looked down at himself to realise he wasn’t wearing a shirt at all. Of course, Gregory had removed it right before…but Mycroft stopped his brain right there, refusing to relive the moment again so soon.

“Yes,” he said. He felt distant, agonisingly aware of his impotence in this situation. There was literally nothing his considerable power and influence could do to improve Gregory’s chances of survival. As Mycroft sat, still frozen on the bathroom floor, Anthea returned bearing a clean shirt. He had no idea how she’d know where to find one, but right now he did not care.

“Come on,” she said. “The car’s waiting. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mycroft nodded, struggling to right himself. The tiles were slippery with condensation but he made it onto the carpet. Taking the shirt from Anthea, Mycroft threw it on and looked at himself in the mirror of his dressing room as he tucked in the tails with numb fingers. His trousers were damp and creased, hair a mess; he took five seconds to brush it, at least. No time for a waistcoat or any of the other details of his usual attire. He couldn’t think, couldn’t make a decision; what was important anyway about what he wore? Roaming eyes caught on their reflection in the mirror. His face was slack with fear and disbelief, eyes wide. He’d barely started processing his own distressing day, and now this on top was almost too much to bear.

He needed Gregory. The realisation came to him suddenly. The statement was all encompassing. Not just now but always, Mycroft needed to know Gregory was safe. Healthy. Happy. Pressing a hand over his mouth, Mycroft fought back a sob, staring at himself in the mirror, the eyes so like his father’s shooting derision and disgust at his emotional display. _Be strong for Gregory_ , his mind whispered, _for Gregory_. Mycroft pulled himself up and gave himself a stern glare in the mirror. All he could do now was show Gregory how important he had become. He must go to the hospital and wait. Time would pass and he would deal with whatever the outcome was. Refusing to consider individual possibilities, Mycroft clenched his jaw and turned.

“I’m ready,” he said, striding out of the room and down the stairs, fear suddenly mixing with the coppery taste of blood still in his mouth. He took his second best overcoat off the rack before they descended in the lift, Anthea blessedly quiet as they settled into the car. It took off with a satisfying screech of tires while Anthea sent numerous messages by text. Mycroft was never more grateful for her tactful silence. It was one of the main reasons she had been chosen for the job, but he’d never really appreciated it until now. Another moment of clarity, Mycroft thought wryly. And this was all it took. He took in deep breaths, staring out the window, preparing himself for the inevitable throng of people he would find himself surrounded by at the hospital. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but such thoughts were selfish in the face of what was happening. His needs and wants were irrelevant; only Gregory mattered. Only his needs were to be met. If even a small part of Gregory would want to see Mycroft, he would present himself there and wait as long as it took. So Mycroft prepared his mind, erected and strengthened his mental barriers against the flood of information.

“He’s arrived. The head of the stroke unit will see him,” Anthea murmured, breaking the silence.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said automatically. They had not spoken a word about what had happened that morning. He assumed Gregory had let her know he was safe, and the next she would have heard was the panic button being depressed in his bedroom. “For everything,” he added, the whisper of a smile the only indication she might have heard him. Neither spoke again until they arrived.

When the car came to a halt at the main entrance, Mycroft did not wait for Anthea – he let himself out of the car, leaving to door open behind himself as he strode towards reception, the strong action helping hide the full body trembling he was experiencing. Although he had refused to entertain ideas of the worst news, there was still the possibility…

“Identification, please.” The receptionist replied, when Mycroft gave Gregory’s name. It had been a long time since someone had not known who he was, Mycroft thought. Ignoring protocol, he passed over his real Government ID instead of the ‘minor Government official’ version. The hospital needed to know exactly how much power he could wield if he needed to. Not that it would change anything – Mycroft could pull down the building and it wouldn’t change Gregory’s prognosis…

“Mr. Lestrade is still being seen by the emergency team,” the receptionist said. “Andrew will accompany you to the third floor family room,” the receptionist said, indicating a large security guard standing by the lift.

Mycroft swallowed hard then nodded. He turned to Anthea, who had caught up with him as he spoke to the receptionist. “Kindly inform Chief McKinley I will be unavailable to interview our suspect.” Mycroft paused, then added, “Might I suggest Waterstone as a replacement? On no account allow Quinn or Traverson into the interview room.”

“No sir,” Anthea replied. It was quite likely she’d organised it all before he’d even spoken, Mycroft reflected as he turned to follow Andrew into the lift. Either way, he need not worry about work. It was no longer the cornerstone of his life, and the survival of the Empire after his weeks of absence had proven Her hardiness. Anthea would deal well with whatever happened, and Mycroft found he was not concerned with any outcome short of nuclear war. His priorities, it seemed, had shifted quite substantially.

He trailed on autopilot after the guard until they reached a small, impersonal room designated for family members. It was thankfully empty, and he nodded absently as Andrew told him the doctors would be with him as soon as possible. Lip service to ease an un-easable burden, Mycroft thought, taking in the muted television and sad looking coffee station. A crashing wave of lassitude came over him, and he collapsed into the nearest chair with not even enough energy to make himself a surely-terrible cup of coffee. Having no idea how long he’d have to wait was torture. Head in hands, Mycroft closed his eyes, making promises to a God he’d never believed in to save Gregory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning – major character suffers a transient ischemic attack (short lived stroke). Description from POV of patient and of their significant other, both during the event and in the aftermath.


	4. Chapter 4

The family room was like a time vortex – Mycroft had no idea how long he’d been there. With no phone or watch he’d been grateful to simply let his mind simmer on a level of anxiety too high to truly relax but not enough to push him over into a meltdown. It kept him awake, at least, and concentrating on his breathing allowed his brain to instead recite meaningless lists of data to keep active and distracted. As he was mentally calculating the length of Her Majesty’s reign in minutes since her coronation the door opened and a nurse stepped in.

“Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, mind immediately going blank except for the chant of _Gregory, Gregory, Gregory_ …

“I’m here to take you to see Mr. Lestrade,” she said. He nodded once and followed her, clenching his fists, pushing down the fear her neutral expression had released.

As the nurse stopped outside a door, Mycroft stopped. He took a deep breath. Surely if he was being shown right in, there was nothing life threatening he needed to know? On the other hand, Gregory could be unconscious. Schrodinger’s cat, Mycroft told himself, forcing one foot forward, then the other, until he was standing in the door of the hospital room.

“Hi, gorgeous,” a voice said, slow and tired, and it took a moment for Mycroft to realise it was Gregory. He was in a bland hospital gown, and there were several monitors on him, but he was alive, and awake. And he recognised Mycroft.

“Hello,” Mycroft managed, taking several halting steps into the room before stopping. Gregory looked drawn, his tanned skin pale, eyes bloodshot. “Are you…how are you feeling?”

“Still not great,” Gregory admitted. “But the doc said it was probably a…” he trailed off. “Something. Not a stroke. Same kind of thing but shorter.”

“You seem almost normal,” Mycroft blurted. He felt the blush rise in his cheeks almost immediately – what a rude thing to say. Why on earth had he opened his mouth to allow such a comment out?

Gregory grinned at him, though it was brief as his face fell back into its tired lines. “I am. Well, as normal as I was. They want to keep me here for a bit, do some more tests. The doc said she reckoned there would be no long term effects, though. I mean, that’s good, right?”

Mycroft nodded, still a metre or so from the bed. He wanted to move closer but the wires attached to various parts of Greg looked sensitive. A good excuse for his own hesitation. “Of course it is, Gregory.” He resolved to speak to this doctor as soon as possible to find out all he could about this not-stroke Gregory had suffered.

“C’mere,” Gregory said, waving one hand at Mycroft. When Mycroft still looked hesitant, he patted the bed. “I won’t bite. And the doc said there’s nothing that could bring it on again, so don’t worry about whatever it is you think you might do to hurt me.”

Mycroft stepped carefully closer, choosing a chair instead, settling as close to the bed as he could.

“I’m sorry,” Gregory murmured, when Mycroft finally took his hand.

“What for?” Mycroft asked.

“All this,” Gregory replied ruefully. “I was supposed to be taking care of you, not collapsing all dramatically and making the afternoon all about me.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft murmured. Gregory’s fingers were warm around his. His mind latched onto the thought, easing from the harsh chant of Gregory’s name to a softer whisper. Warm. Alive. Smooth. Firm.

“Pretty weird day, huh,” Gregory said quietly, rubbing the pad of his thumb along Mycroft’s skin.

Calloused was added to the slow rotation of words in Mycroft’s brain. He smiled. “Not a typical example, no,” replied Mycroft. The tension was easing now and he felt exhausted and detached but contentment was taking over, gradually eroding the boulder of worry still pressing on his stomach.

“It’s weird not being at your place,” Gregory said, speech slow but clear. “I got pretty used to it.”

“As did I,” Mycroft said quietly. Understatement, his brain chided him.

Gregory took a deep breath, and said, “Will you look at me, gorgeous?”

Mycroft did, feeling his heart drop. Surely this was the moment Gregory would let him down gently, explain that for all the tender moments they’d shared, being out in the world again had only shown him that the Stockholm syndrome they’d shared wasn’t real. He took a deep breath of his own, waiting for Gregory to speak and break his heart.

“I missed you,” Gregory whispered. “When you weren’t there today. It took me a while to realise the weirdness wasn’t because of where I was but who I wasn’t with.” He screwed up his face in a frankly adorable expression that Mycroft had never seen. “We didn’t really leave things in a very good place this morning, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since for not just saying what I wanted.”

“Which is what?” Mycroft forced the words from his dry, constricted throat.

“Well before this happened I was going to say I wanted to keep seeing you. Dating, or whatever you call it at our age.” He smiled a little awkwardly. “I want to be around you. Exclusively. Except for work and all that, but in between, I want there to be an us.” The grin relaxed and took over, reaching up to his tired eyes now. “But the doc has said that I can’t go home unless I have someone there to keep an eye on me for the next week. So instead I’m asking if I can move back in with you. Just for a week.”

Mycroft’s mind was still processing the first thing Gregory had said. It wasn’t the rejection he’d been bracing for. Gregory wanted to be with him. He’d actually said ‘exclusively’. Beyond that there had been a request of some kind, and Mycroft replied automatically. Gregory could have whatever he wanted. Mycroft would give him anything in his considerable power.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, before his brain caught up and he understood specifically what he would need to do. His response was immediate. Ignoring the lack of security on the semi-public hospital lines, Mycroft picked up the phone and dialled an outside number from memory.

“Anthea. Inform Waterstone he will be responsible for concluding the Tasman situation. I will be working from home for the next two weeks, as will Detective Inspector Lestrade. Only the most urgent and classified matters should be forwarded and I will attend to them from my flat.” His eyes never left Gregory as he added, “Please ensure the refrigerator is stocked again for cooking.” A pause as he listened. “Yes. Thank you.” He replaced the phone, knowing Anthea would ensure there was no record of that frankly reckless phone call.

Gregory’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “Did you just do what I think you just did?”

Mycroft shrugged, inwardly pleased with the shock on Gregory’s face at his unexpected action. “Your secondment has been extended for a further two weeks. As for me,” he added, “the Commonwealth has coped without me for several weeks now. Surely two further weeks of my absence will not bring the wolves to Her Majesty’s door.”

Gregory’s eyes softened, and his fingers gripped again as Mycroft returned his hands to Gregory’s. Before either could speak again, there was a knock at the door. A doctor walked in, her stride confident and professional.

“Mr. Holmes, I presume. I’m Lydia Phelps, I am the vascular surgeon on call today and the head of the stroke intervention team. I examined Mr. Lestrade when he came in.”

“How do you do?” Mycroft murmured, taking her extended hand.

“Well, thank you. How are you feeling, Mr. Lestrade?”

“Better than when I came in,” Gregory replied.

“Would you prefer I stepped out?” Mycroft asked Gregory, though he longed to stay close.

“Of course not,” Gregory replied. He flashed Mycroft a grin before answering the doctor’s questions about his vision, balance and other sensory perception and enduring the retina-bleaching check of his pupils.

“I’m confident this was not a true stroke,” she told both men, stepping back and slipping her penlight into her pocket. “Your symptoms had already started to resolve when you arrived, and you’ve continued to improve without medical intervention. It’s called a Transient Ischemic Attack,” she explained to Mycroft. “Basically, a short term blockage of an artery which resolves itself and does not result in tissue death.” She smiled in what Mycroft assumed was meant to be a reassuring way to someone who’d just heard the terms ‘blockage of an artery’ and ‘tissue death’. “Basically, it was a warning. No long term effects, but it does mean you are statistically far more likely to have a stroke now that this has happened. I want to do some tests to be entirely sure, so we’ll keep you in overnight. I doubt surgery will be necessary.”

Both Gregory and Mycroft nodded like small boys at this pronouncement.

“Before you check out, we’ll discuss medication and the possibility of some lifestyle changes that will bring your risk of stroke down further.” Her eyes were fixed on Gregory now. “Have you had a chance to discuss the conditions of your discharge, too?”

“Yes,” Gregory replied. His fingers tightened again as he told her, “Mycroft has said I can stay with him for a while.”

“Two weeks,” Mycroft interjected, “unless you would recommend a longer period of time.”

“No, that should be fine.” Dr. Phelps replied. “You should try and make sure there’s someone around as much as possible. You shouldn’t drive for two weeks, either.”

“I’ve taken leave from work,” Mycroft told her, a curl of amusement shifting in his stomach. She had no idea how odd that phrase was, coming from Mycroft. He felt Gregory’s fingers curl more tightly around his own. “I will be available almost constantly, and should we need it there is a private nursing firm I have employed on previous occasions.” He ignored the surprised look Gregory gave him at that piece of information –it would be a topic of conversation in the future, he was sure.

The doctor bade them farewell and a nurse came in, explaining the MRI and CT scans and taking some blood as well as Gregory’s signature on the forms she gave him. Promising the scans would be soon and that dinner would be served afterwards, she departed again, leaving Mycroft and Gregory alone again.

“Is there anyone I should contact for you?” Mycroft asked suddenly. It was a little odd to be the person sitting beside Gregory’s bed at a time like this. Surely there were other people in his life?

“If I’m home tomorrow I’ll call mum and my sister,” Gregory said. “No point calling now, they’ll just panic. Worse, they’ll want to come around.”

“That bad?” Mycroft asked.

“Not at all. Love them to bits but they are nosy as hell and quite over the top. Besides, I don’t have anything to tell them ‘til the test are done.”

“What about work?” Mycroft racked his brains for the name… “Sergeant Donovan?”

Gregory shrugged. “As far as work’s concerned I’m still…” he stopped and frowned. “I just realised I have no idea what you told work about why I’ve been gone for…”he paused, trying to work it out. “Three weeks? Four? Anyway, what is it they think I’m doing, exactly?”

“The Chief Commissioner agreed to second you to MI5 indefinitely,” Mycroft told him. “Sergeant Donovan – Acting Detective Inspector Donovan, should I say – spoke to your mother, as next of kin, explaining your sudden secondment and that she would be informed of anything relevant.”

Gregory snorted. “Christ, she’ll have loved that. Poor Sally would have copped an earful.” His face dropped out of its smile and turned more thoughtful. “She deserves the chance at Inspector, though.” He turned his gaze to Mycroft. “So basically, I’m working for you.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Does that mean I’m still getting paid?” Gregory asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Your bills are not going unpaid, and there is generous remuneration, of course,” Mycroft told him.

“Good to know,” Gregory told him. “Now what do you think is the chance of dinner being edible? I’m betting you haven’t eaten all day either.”

“One or two things have taken precedence,” Mycroft protested mildly. “I’m sure you will be able to charm the nurses into supplying another meal, however. We can suffer our gastronomic fate together.”

Gregory grinned at the terrible joke, and Mycroft found himself smiling back. Of all the endings to this awful day, this was the one he had not allowed himself to consider. A healthy Gregory holding him close, the promise of more time together in the very near future. Perhaps someone had heard his plea, Mycroft thought, though his rational mind scoffed at the idea. Might be best to put some of those promises into effect. Just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft slept that night in a fold out bed beside Gregory. It was not standard practice, however the existence of such accommodation made it clear that it was not completely unheard of. This was the most exclusive private hospital in London, after all.

To Mycroft’s relief, Doctor Phelps arrived immediately after breakfast. The last thing he wanted to do was sit around waiting for the verdict.

“Good morning,” she began, with a brief smile. “I’ll cut to the chase – your tests are clean. Which means it was almost certainly a TIA, but as we’d expect, it’s cleared itself up.” Mycroft felt himself relax at the pronouncement, the squeeze of Greg’s fingers a silent reassurance.

“So, let’s talk about a plan going forward,” the doctor continued. “You’re going home with Mr. Holmes here, who’s going to make sure you don’t drive,” Mycroft nodded, “and generally keep an eye on you. I’d like you to take this low dose aspirin until our next check in in a month or so.” She handed him a prescription. “It’s a blood thinning medication that will make it less likely a blockage will develop.” Gregory nodded, taking the paper.

“Medically, that’s pretty much all we can do for you,” Dr. Phelps said. “In terms of your lifestyle, there are some things that are better than others if you’re looking at preventing a stroke.”

“That’s the plan, yeah,” Gregory said with an attempt at levity.

“Reducing the amount you drink, and cutting out smoking entirely are the best things you can do,” she said. “Do you smoke at all?”

“When I’m stressed I do.” Gregory replied honestly. “Not that often, but might be a few in a row, once a day every couple of weeks.”

“I believe Sherlock could take responsibility for that, then,” Mycroft murmured.

“Just about,” said Gregory.

“And you drink?”

“A few pints, a few times a week,” he admitted.

“And most of your stress comes from work?” Dr. Phelps asked as though she already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Gregory replied. “I’m a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

“I can see how there’s a bit of responsibility there,” she said dryly, thought there was a smile, too. “Do you eat well? Sleep well? Your blood pressure’s at the high end of normal, cholesterol’s the same.” She raised her eyebrows.

“No, no, and I’m not surprised.” Gregory replied. “The job’s pretty all encompassing.”

“I know what that’s like,” Dr. Phelps told him. “But to be brutally honest, if you take the medication and don’t change anything about your lifestyle, you might as well not take the medication. This is a warning from your body. Given your blood pressure and cholesterol combined with the general stress I’d guess you’re under from work, plus the smoking and drinking, I’m surprised this is the first time it’s happened.”

Silence rang for a moment after she finished. “I’m sorry, I know that’s pretty blunt,” she said with empathy but no remorse in her voice. “I’ve seen a lot of men in your position, Detective Inspector – stressful jobs and the same few ways of dealing with it, none of which are good for their health. Some of them don’t get a warning at all. So I’ve learned to just lay it out there. I can’t make you change your life, but if you don’t, you might not get a whole lot more of it.” With a muted smile, she left some paperwork on Gregory’s bedside table. “I’ll leave this for you. When you’re ready, take these papers to reception and you can check yourself out. They’ll call you to make an appointment for four weeks’ time.”

Once she’d left, Gregory cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “At least I know where I stand, I guess.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He was partly in shock at the way that woman had spoken to Gregory, partly in shock at the message she had been trying to send him. He had no idea how to address it with Gregory. “I don’t know what to say,” he said honestly.

“Neither do I,” Gregory muttered. “Fuck.” With a sudden fist, he thumped his bed. Mycroft jumped. “FUCK!” He swore again, louder. He turned to Mycroft, frustrated anger written all over his face. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Mycroft said carefully.

“You heard what she said! It’s basically a choice between my job and my life. And of course my life is more important but how the fuck am I supposed to survive without a fucking job?” Mycroft could hear the emotion overtaking Gregory’s voice, the timbre changing as he struggled to express himself. “I’ve worked hard for this, all my life, making something of myself. I can’t just throw it all away! What would I do? Fuck!”

To Mycroft’s horror Gregory buried his face in his hands. The sound of his breathing filled the room, harsh and deep. Hesitantly, Mycroft put one hand on Gregory’s shoulder – was this right? Should he be comforting Gregory? To his relief, Gregory leaned into it, and Mycroft took the confidence this gave him, standing up to put his arms around the heaving shoulders.

“We will speak to the doctor again if you wish,” Mycroft said quietly when Greg’s sobs had subsided. “With respect to your working conditions, we will speak to your superior officer, or anyone further up the chain including the Police Commissioner. We will speak to the Police Federation if you wish, or a solicitor. If you wish to continue working in your current capacity, we can make it happen.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “If you would prefer to consider alternative employment,” he paused, “there are options.” His mind was racing but he held back offering anything specific – Gregory may buck at the idea of being coddled. Silence rang in the room, punctuated only by Greg’s breathing.

“Thanks,” Gregory whispered finally.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied automatically.

“No, I mean…thanks for staying. And for offering to help.” He took a deep breath and looked into Mycroft’s eyes. “Not just the next two weeks, I mean, it sounds like you’re offering more than that.”

“I am.” Mycroft found the question as easy and obvious as ‘Would you like tea?’

Gregory smiled. “Good.”

“May I suggest you complete these forms and get dressed while I fill your prescription?” Mycroft said. “Anthea has brought you a bag. There is a pharmacy on the ground floor, and then I for one would dearly like to return home.”

“Good thing I’m already packed,” Gregory replied, smiling. Mycroft could see the effort behind it – there were still serious enough questions over his future but Gregory was still trying to make Mycroft smile. His heart swelled with the knowledge of it.

+++

Mycroft found the pharmacy easily enough, and when Gregory was ready (which took a very short time) they checked him out and slid into the waiting black car. He deliberately ignored Gregory taking the first dose of his medication, not wanting to make him self-conscious. “Home, thank you,” Mycroft told the driver. He and Gregory held hands for the much slower trip back home; there was no need for the same breakneck speed which had brought them to the hospital. Neither spoke, a comfortable understanding resting over them both. They were heading back for the safety of Mycroft’s home. Their sanctuary. The world had been harsher than either had expected, and they had been granted leave to bury themselves once again in their safe space.

“I’ll take your bag upstairs,” Mycroft offered as they stepped into the entranceway. He bent to pick up Gregory’s bag where he had dropped it.

“I’m not an invalid, Mycroft,” Gregory replied.

“I apologise,” Mycroft said, immediately straightening. “I meant no offense, but you are here so I can ensure you follow an optimal recovery program.”

Gregory stared at him for a drawn out moment. “You’re right. And what I want right now is to climb into bed and wrap my arms around you.”

Without speaking, Mycroft lead the way upstairs, ignoring the bag.

At the top of the stairs, Gregory hesitated, his body turning towards the guest suite in which he had stayed, though his eyes lingered on Mycroft’s bedroom door. It was hardly a difficult deduction.

“Stay with me,” Mycroft said quietly, pushing his door open. The smile Gregory gave was wonderful; they stepped through the door together and he placed his bag in the corner. Without speaking they came together, a gentle slip of arms around backs, chests pressing together, breathing synchronising. Mycroft glanced over Gregory’s shoulder at the bathroom, bracing himself to look at the spot Gregory had…taken ill. It was exactly as it always was; another Anthea miracle, he assumed, relieved. Gregory didn’t seem to be disturbed by their location, thankfully. The bed linen had been changed too, the vastly different pattern changing the feel of the room. He breathed a sigh of relief. Turning back to Gregory, Mycroft lowered his head and breathed in.

“We should get at least a bit undressed,” Gregory murmured. “These trousers aren’t going to be comfortable to lie down in.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. They reluctantly drew away, each eyeing the other for a hint as to how undressed would be acceptably un-pushy. As their eyes met, and Gregory winked mischievously, Mycroft felt a bubble of laughter rise up. The tension was broken and they both stripped down to pants before climbing into Mycroft’s bed. This part was easy; each body knew the shapes and angles of the other, and they settled together, Gregory’s arms enfolding Mycroft as they half-sat against the headboard. It was as close to heaven as Mycroft could imagine. He was surrounded by Gregory’s arms, his scent, and the blissful sound of his heartbeat thumping solidly in his chest.

+++

There was no indication of how long they had dozed there; Mycroft’s internal clock still faltered when Gregory was too close. Easing his eyelids open, Mycroft looked around his bedroom. Based on the sun, it was mid-afternoon. He shifted carefully, uncertain if Gregory was sleeping or not.

“You okay?” Gregory’s question answered Mycroft’s, though his voice was gravelly with disuse.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He sat up properly, stretching his neck a little.

“You know, Dr. Phelps came back while you were gone today,” Gregory said. Mycroft hummed in response, waiting for the rest of the story. “She wanted to make sure I was okay after her little speech.” With a start, Mycroft realised Gregory had sat up behind him and was now leaning over, tracing the curve of his neck with one fingertip. Goosebumps immediately formed. Mycroft shivered. “The most interesting thing she said,” Gregory murmured, his wet inner lip sliding along the curve of Mycroft’s ear, “was that I’m no more likely to have a stroke during sex than any other time.”

“Really,” Mycroft gasped as Gregory’s teeth delicately nipped at his ear.

“Really,” Gregory replied. “I even made her say it again, just to be sure.”

“So you’re sure, then?” Mycroft asked in the most doubtful voice he could muster. It was more breathy moan than anything, so probably not that convincing.

“Am I sure I want you?” Gregory asked. His voice was trembling, though Mycroft couldn’t see his face to work out why. “Am I sure I want to be as close as possible today after I thought…after I missed you all morning then got dragged out of a frankly boring interrogation to find you when you had disappeared?” The words poured out of him, their raw emotion burning Mycroft as they fell on his exposed skin.

“I thought you died.” Mycroft told him, the words clumsy and honest. In the darkest of those moments between his flat and seeing Gregory in the hospital, that was the thought that he had battled to banish from his mind. “Or…worse.”

“Worse?” Gregory asked. He’d stopped caressing Mycroft’s neck and was now holding him, arms wrapped around his stomach, chin hooked over one shoulder.

“If you had lived but not known who I was.” Mycroft admitted, the words raw in his throat, “I don’t know how I would have borne it.”

“Me either, gorgeous.” They spun at the same time, crashing together in tacit understanding. This was affirmation of life. There was nothing gentle about their kisses, about the bruising fingers clutching hard enough to hurt. Gregory’s mouth ran hard across Mycroft’s neck, teeth scraping along stubble that burned his chin. Without meaning to, Mycroft’s fingers wound into Gregory’s hair, pulling tight, tugging at his scalp as those teeth dragged at his nipples. Hips bucked together and breathless cursing accompanied the hasty removal of pants stained already with sweat and pre-come. Mycroft knew his fingers were rough as he grasped Gregory’s cock, but the throb under his fingers told him it was a welcome sensation. Neither was coherent enough to speak but individual words made themselves known, mingling with the movement and breathing, the proof of life that both craved.

Somehow Gregory had managed to find the lube. In the haze of arousal Mycroft had not noticed the absence of one of his hands, but the sudden trail of cool liquid over Gregory’s cock was evidence enough. It made his hand move far more easily, but Mycroft wanted more. He lifted one leg over Gregory’s hip, as much invitation as he was capable of, hoping the message was clear. When two fingers slipped without preamble against his entrance, Mycroft’s loud groan was unstoppable. His hips canted backwards, inviting them in as he bit down on Gregory’s shoulder. It was good, more than good, but not enough. He wanted more, he wanted to feel the stretch, the almost too much of not quite enough preparation. Without warning Mycroft pushed Gregory onto his back, shifting so his fingers slipped out. One leg swung over Gregory’s hip, and Mycroft’s hand gripped the base of Gregory’s cock, guiding it to the entrance of his body.

Their eyes met, the silent eye of the storm as both men stilled and neither breathed.

Slowly, eyes locked on Gregory’s, not wanting to miss a second, Mycroft lowered himself. He felt the blunt tip of Gregory’s cock press against him, the muscle giving then protesting as he did not stop. He allowed it all to show on his face as the prickle of discomfort was overtaken by the overwhelming knowledge of Gregory filling him to bursting. He felt Gregory move past the first ring of muscle, pressing him outward, pushing his body aside as he made space to occupy Mycroft. The flickers of Gregory’s eyes, the bob of his Adams’ apple as he swallowed, counterpoints of pain at Gregory gripped his hips; all came together, pooling in Mycroft’s abdomen. Finally, a dozen or more slow breaths later, he settled on Gregory’s hips, filled to the brim, glorying in the knowledge they could not be closer.

Gregory was the first to break the silence. “Can you move?” he asked, voice cracking. “Please, Mycroft…”

Leaning forward to brace himself on his hands, Mycroft felt Gregory’s cock brush his prostate. “Oh,” he gasped, eyes fluttering closed before opening again, locking with Gregory’s. “You need to fuck me hard, right now.” The words were base and demanding, but Mycroft didn’t care. He wanted Gregory to take him, hard, to prove to both of them that despite the devastation of the last two days, they were alive and together.

Gregory moved tentatively, the slow pull out dragging the head of his cock almost out of Mycroft, the burning stretch a coarse tease before he made to push back, slowly. Mycroft anticipated it and pushed down hard, snapping their bodies together instead, burying Greg deep and pressing hard across his prostate again. Gregory swore, and they did the same again, Gregory’s long slow pull out, stretching Mycroft again with the widest part of himself before Mycroft dropped back onto him, gasping with the rush of sensation.

“Harder, Gregory,” Mycroft gasped. “Show me you’re alive. Prove it to me. Make me- agh! – make me know it.” The words were all jumbled, interrupted as Gregory pressed again on his prostate, and perhaps it was the broken moan that did it but suddenly Gregory gripped Mycroft’s hips and started pounding up, thrusting his cock into Mycroft. The change of pace was perfect, and the rest of reality disappeared, the world condensing to two people and one bed. Mycroft heard Gregory, and the slap of skin on skin. He felt the stretch, now less burn and more delicious, the sharp stabs of pleasure as Gregory relentlessly hit his prostate over and over. The burn was now in his lungs, where he gasped, trying to draw in enough oxygen to light the embers smouldering in his abdomen. As the tension there ratcheted higher, Mycroft heard a voice begging. It was high and needy and calling Gregory’s name, answered only by the stuttering cock pumping warm wetness into his body. He could feel Gregory’s cock pulsing, pressing outwards as it swelled and burst inside him.

Mycroft was hanging so close to the edge, every nerve singing, needing…something. Just a tiny thing, a brush of contact…Before he could figure it out, something tight squeezed his cock, and he pumped into it two, three times before the embers ignited, sending white light and heat through his body and the whole universe. Body trembling, Mycroft lowered himself to lie beside Gregory, curling into his side, ignoring the stickiness for a few moments.

“Shower?” Gregory asked quietly when their breathing had subsided.

“As long as we actually get to shower this time.” Mycroft replied. The quick chuckle told him Gregory understood the joke. Not too soon, then.

“Come on gorgeous,” Gregory murmured. When they stood, he added, “clean sheets, too.”

“I’ll do the sheets,” Mycroft protested.

“We’ll do them together,” Gregory compromised. Mycroft made a show of rolling his eyes, but the gesture was affectionate. If Gregory could have energetic and frankly mind blowing sex without a stroke, he could certainly help change the sheets. Especially if Mycroft got out of the shower first and did them before Gregory had a chance.

Smirking to himself, Mycroft followed Gregory to the shower. The discomfort in his body and the indignity of come running down his inner thigh was worth having Gregory here to argue about domestic chores.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to englandwouldfalljohn and chocolate puddings.

For englandwouldfalljohn – chocolate pudding

“I don’t want to talk about the future for a while, okay?” Gregory said suddenly. They were lying in bed again, having showered and dried each other and returned to the sheets Gregory had insisted on helping change. Lying down properly this time, almost nose to nose on adjoining pillows. “I just want to enjoy this, and maybe think about it a bit, but I don’t want to make any decisions.”

Mycroft nodded. He appreciated Gregory’s forthrightness. “May I ask one question?” He fiddled with the seam of his pillowcase. “A reassurance, if you will.”

“Of course,” Gregory answered.

Mycroft took a moment to compose his question. “Without meaning to pressure you at all…are you referring to your decisions about your life, or wold you prefer this arrangement be open ended also?”

The dark eyes that filled his vision widened then filled all of a sudden. “Don’t you know yet?” Gregory whispered, one hand trembling as it rested on Mycroft’s cheek. He blinked hard as though to banish the sudden tears. “I absolutely want you in my future, Mycroft. We have stuff to talk about, and I think we both have questions, but I mean I don’t want to talk about work or anything.” His thumb shifted, swiping ineffectually at the tear sliding slowly down Mycroft’s long nose. Gregory’s emotions had triggered Mycroft’s, it seemed. “I want to enjoy you again for a few precious days before we have to do real world thinking.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, the constriction around his heart easing. He couldn’t bear to think that Gregory was considering leaving him – what was he talking about? Exclusivity was not the same as longevity, but he held out hope that the words not yet said out loud had been implied.

“Are you hungry?” Gregory asked suddenly. The idea of hunger hadn’t occurred to Mycroft – all his attention had been focussed on Gregory and none on his own body.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied as he finally identified the nagging sensation that had been interrupting his concentration. He smiled, a tremulous defence against the still teary face he knew Gregory could see. “Shall we eat?”

+++

The next few days were blissful. As promised, neither raised any subject of consequence to the future. They watched the rest of the CrossFit sessions they’d missed, eating popcorn and trying to guess who would win each event. Mycroft read while Gregory dozed, their legs tangled in the middle of the sofa. Anthea’s excellent grocery shopping had arrived, and they cooked together, sometimes in the comfortable silence of two people so closely attuned to each other, sometimes with playful banter punctuating their work. Other times they talked of their childhoods, holidays and family.

“Did you call your family, Gregory?” Mycroft asked one day out of the blue.

Gregory had rolled his eyes and called his mother immediately, making faces at Mycroft as he endured her endless questions. She had insisted on coming to take care of him until he pointed out that she had no idea where he was. That didn’t go down too well, and he’d had to rely on his sister’s promise to smooth things over in his absence.

“Thanks for that,” Gregory said insincerely, once he’d finally hung up. “Why don’t you call your mum now, just to make things even?”

Mycroft had not, of course. Instead they’d talked more about their respective upbringings. They couldn’t have been more different, between Gregory’s mother’s struggle to support her son and daughter in a rough neighbourhood and Mycroft’s life of material privilege, and each was fascinated by the other.

“So you had a nanny.” Gregory asked one day, as they leaned against the kitchen counter, eating the last of a chocolate pudding with a spoon. They’d eaten from bowls at the table at first, but the last of the pudding was too tempting and so they stood here, spoons scraping against ceramic in search of the last morsels of chocolate.

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed.

“And so did Sherlock. A separate nanny for each child.” Gregory was still amazed at the decadence of such a choice.

“Suffice it to say, Sherlock’s nannies didn’t last long.” Mycroft told him, licking chocolate sauce off his spoon.

“Oh, tell me all the stories,” Gregory said, grinning widely.

“Hmmm,” Mycroft considered the options. “One nanny lasted a week – until she discovered Sherlock was using her as an experimental subject.”

“For what, exactly?” Gregory asked.

“He was dosing her with the pills he found in my father’s bathroom to see what they did.”

“Dare I ask?” Gregory prompted him, a devilish grin on his face.

“I think you do,” Mycroft murmured, before saying, “They were hormone regulators. She found she was significantly…hairier.” He paused. “Excess testosterone will do that to a woman.”

At the unexpected end to the sentence Gregory burst out laughing, spitting chocolate pudding all over the bench in the process.

“Christ, Mycroft!” he gasped, now laughing not only at the story but the horrified look on Mycroft’s face. “You’ve gotta warn me next time. Though I should have known, a story about a young Sherlock…” he shook his head, and Mycroft thought he had never looked so handsome. Eyes twinkling with mirth, even with chocolate sauce caught in the stubble on his chin. It was the happiness, Mycroft thought. He looks so happy.

Impulsively, Mycroft leaned forward, licking at the chocolate on the end of Gregory’s chin. He hummed in appreciation, partly for the rich, sweet chocolate, partly for the change in Gregory’s expression. His eyes locked onto Mycroft’s for a second that seemed to float in time, before he growled, “That’s my chocolate, gorgeous.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. He stood up, the chocolate still on the tip of his tongue, and slowly folded his tongue back into his mouth. “Mine now,” he replied.

“Really,” Gregory said, and a flood of warmth rushed through Mycroft. The dynamic between them had shifted since they had returned to Mycroft’s flat. Before, there had been bold moves, explicit requests, intense sex. Since they had returned, however, their intimacies had been far more subtle, permeating the day. Mycroft found himself wanting to touch Gregory all the time, and when he touched one spot, he wanted to touch them all. Long slow explorations, voice low and panting were now the norm instead of the more explosive, demanding sex of earlier.

It was more like lovemaking.

_Love._

An idea neither had come even close to mentioning. For all their conversations about growing up, the late night whispers of childhood fears, difficulties with peers and family, neither Mycroft nor Gregory had opened the can of worms that was how, exactly, they felt about each other. For Mycroft it felt too much like talking of the future, and Gregory had been quite firm that he did not want to talk about that yet. He had to honour that request, and so he refused to acknowledge the swelling of his heart when Gregory smiled a lopsided smile his way, or how much he adored it when Gregory crowded him towards the edge of the bed in the middle of the night.

Before, Gregory would have stalked over to Mycroft and taken the chocolate, kissing him hard, pressing him into the bench.

Now, he still rounded the bench, but it was less dominant. “Perhaps you could share,” he said, moving into Mycroft’s space, but leaving him an exit route.

“Perhaps I could,” Mycroft replied. He leaned in and kissed Gregory, the thrill still coursing through him when Gregory kissed him back, arms sliding around his waist as Mycroft pressed himself into Gregory, wanting to be closer to his warmth, the proof of life he’d found himself craving in the past few days. The worry he’d felt had been easing, for which he was grateful, but still every time Mycroft pressed his skin to Gregory’s, felt the flutter of a pulse under his questing lips, he was thankful Gregory was alive for those moments to happen.

Exhaling, Mycroft allowed his mouth to open, his tongue to press along Gregory’s. He could no longer taste chocolate, and he wondered if Gregory was able to find a hint of the rich taste. “Anything?” Mycroft asked, drawing away.

“Unfortunately not,” Gregory replied. He smiled, trying to talk and kiss at the same time. “Maybe you’re holding out on me, though. Any other places I could check that might be hiding chocolate?”

“I don’t think so,” Mycroft said, doing his best to kiss and smile and talk at the same time. He breathed deeply, adoring the intimacy of this closeness. He tried to sound unconvincing. “Pretty sure it’s all gone.”

“Maybe,” Gregory said, punctuating his words with kisses that trailed along Mycroft’s face and down his jaw, “I could explore a little. See what I can,” he paused, dipping his head to suck lightly on the skin at the base of Mycroft’s throat, “find.”

Mycroft groaned, his head dropping back. “Please,” he whispered. He’d loved the explicit words of Before, but there was a lot to be said for quiet and gentle. His fingers slid into Gregory’s hair, restraining the urge to clutch at the strands as Gregory’s mouth travelled across his collarbone. His shirt buttons were being undone – they’d both become very good at doing that without looking, and Gregory’s head dipped lower, lips fluttering down to one nipple.

Mycroft sighed, fingers massaging Gregory’s scalp as he rode the waves of desire, spurred on as they were by Gregory’s mouth working over his body. They knew each other well by now – hours of slow lazy exploration had ensured there was barely a centimetre unexplored on each of their bodies. Gregory was exploiting his knowledge now, dropping kisses across Mycroft’s stomach, fingers still brushing lightly over the wetness he’d left coating Mycroft’s nipples.

“Bed?” Gregory asked, running his nose along the rapidly rising bulge in Mycroft’s trousers.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, clutching at his shoulders as he stood up. A single kiss pressed firmly into Gregory’s mouth, long fingers in his hair, and he was pulling away, that wicked grin flashing as he pulled Mycroft up the stairs to his bedroom. They’d long ago given up on the guest room, and Gregory used Mycroft’s bedroom as his own. Right now he allowed himself to flop across the mattress, pulling Mycroft down on top. Happy to be directed, Mycroft straddled Gregory, pressing his hips down into Gregory’s stomach, feeling the answering hardness slide along the line of his arse.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft groaned, closing his eyes and repeating the action slowly, the sound of Gregory’s gasp and the feel of his fingers digging into his hips sending thrills ricocheting around his body. Without looking, he reached down, searching for Gregory’s shirt, tugging it up so his fingers brushed soft skin.

“Christ,” Gregory bit out, face contorted with pleasure. Mycroft grinned to himself. Gregory loved soft caresses; it was one of Mycroft’s favourite things about him. While he could be arousingly demanding, it was the slow gentle touches that drove him to distraction – and he knew that Mycroft knew. That small detail, the little nugget of secret knowledge, was what Mycroft treasured. Who else would know that about him? Very few people, and none were in a position to put it into practice. Leaning forward, Mycroft allowed his hips to slide back, pressing over Gregory’s cock as he brought their stomachs together, brushing his lips over Gregory’s hairline, roaming across his temple, cheek, jawline and down the neck of his shirt. Tempting though it was to suck a bruise into the soft skin, Mycroft instead pressed his lips softly, right where Gregory’s pulse throbbed. He could feel it, feel the beating of that precious heart under his lips. When Gregory’s hands ran over his shoulders, Mycroft did not move his head, instead capturing Gregory’s wrists, pinning them to the bed beside his head. He wanted to concentrate on this, to savour the moments when proof of life, of Gregory’s life, was there, under his lips. Gregory lay still, understanding what this was for Mycroft, patient as always. The trust of such a position was not lost on Mycroft, either – the barest nick to his exposed artery would be a serious medical situation, yet Gregory lay there, head tilted back, neck exposed as Mycroft revelled in his very life.

Long moments later Mycroft’s hands slid from Gregory’s wrists, instead loosening his buttons, allowing for further exploration. He followed a similar path to that Gregory had traversed; nipples, ribs, soft stomach, all with slow, gentle touches. Mycroft could feel the tremble of Gregory’s stomach as he fought to hold still, the contraction of these muscles no less intoxicating than that of his heart. As his open mouth adored Gregory’s stomach, the silver-grey hairs tickling his face, Mycroft unbuckled Gregory’s belt and trousers. Regretfully he sat up to deal with his own, watching Gregory kick-peel-kick his own off, stripping off pants for good measure.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, returning to suck open kisses into Gregory’s hip bones, deliberately allowing the heavy cock to drag along the underside of his jaw. He hadn’t shaved today.

The rough stubble dragged along the head of Gregory’s cock, drawing both a gasped, “Fuck!’ from Gregory and a burst of pre-come to paint across Mycroft’s jaw. He turned his head, running his equally rough cheek along the length of Gregory’s cock sideways, avoiding the now-wet head. In his peripheral vision he could see Gregory’s stomach moving up and down – breathing deeply, a good sign. Fluidly, Mycroft turned again, continuing to drag sections of his stubbled face across every facet of Gregory’s cock, interspersing the roughness with soft kisses, lips barely brushing velvet skin. The groan as he nosed right into Gregory’s balls before turning to lick a wide stripe from root to tip was glorious, but always, he returned to stubble on skin, knowing the almost-too-rough prickle of his two days’ growth would drive Gregory slowly higher.

“Fuck, please, Mycroft…” the gasp came from above, and Mycroft elected to wrap his mouth around the very tip of Gregory’s cock before lifting his eyes and eyebrows enquiringly. He suckled gently once, unable to maintain the suction when a smirk crossed his face at Gregory’s loud groan. Lube was pressed into his hand almost pleadingly, and Mycroft took it, wrapping his tongue around sensitive skin as he did so. Counting slowly to fifteen in Turkish, Mycroft lowered his head, swirling his tongue all the while, his nose touching Gregory’s pubic bone as he finally reached _onbeş_. A deliberate swallow, hands pressing on Gregory’s hips to hold down his inevitable bucking press at the sensation, and the counting reversed for another fifteen slow seconds, finishing with a rough lick, collecting the beading pre-come just as he thought, _otuz_. Sitting up a little, Mycroft surveyed his efforts. Gregory was panting hard, his face flushed, hands clenched in the sheets. The sight made Mycroft’s cock throb, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to rut against the sheets. He’d taken Gregory apart; now to bring him back together. The snick of the lube registered with Gregory; his body jumped slightly, and Mycroft laid tiny kisses up his thigh as he warmed the liquid on his fingers. One hand underneath and Gregory’s thigh lifted, his foot pressing flat against the bed.

“I want to be inside you,” Mycroft whispered, the stark words somehow more arousing than the most florid of speeches.

“Christ, yes,” Gregory groaned, pulling his leg up, hugging it to his chest. Mycroft followed it up, his slick fingers pressing behind Gregory’s balls as his tongue pressed into Gregory’s mouth. The move was unexpected and Gregory startled, but immediately kissed back, groaning into Mycroft’s mouth as two fingers settled inside him. Mycroft was panting now too, the combination of Gregory’s arousal and the tightness around his fingers ramping his own desire higher and higher. He tried to match his tongue to his fingers, but Gregory’s own movement made things slide in and out of sync. Somehow that was better, their inability to keep up a rhythm.

“Please, Mycroft,” Gregory was begging now, his hips meeting Mycroft’s, their cocks brushing past in one direction, fingers sinking deep into him in the other. “Please, please…”

Mycroft had been waiting for him to ask. With all the control he possessed, he carefully withdrew his fingers, slicked his cock and pressed into Gregory. No preamble, no teasing, not now. Mycroft knew if Gregory started begging he was close, too close to tease. As the warm pressure enveloped him, Mycroft groaned hard, a deep visceral response he hoped would allow him a few rocking thrusts before he came. He held still as Gregory’s body accepted him, until one trembling hand brushed against his face.

“Please…” Gregory whispered, and Mycroft moved immediately. He pulled back then reburied himself, long and deep and not too slow, the way blissful hours had taught him wrung the most pleasure out of Gregory. Sure enough, his shoulders were being gripped in a vice, legs wrapped around his waist; soon Gregory was begging again, and Mycroft increased his pace, tilting his hips to brush against Gregory’s prostate. Once, twice…and Gregory was shouting himself hoarse, one hand on his own cock, muscles tight, head thrown gloriously back – the sight of it, and the feel of waves of pulsing contractions around his cock hurled Mycroft over the edge too, a few hard quick thrusts until he buried himself so deep inside Gregory, feeling his own body contract and force come into Gregory.

“You are never to shave again,” Gregory said drowsily, then burst into hoarse chuckles. “Fuck my throat is sore.”

Mycroft, still incredulous at the sight of a thoroughly wrung out Gregory making silly affectionate jokes, carefully slipped out of Gregory before collapsing half on and half off him, arms and legs arranging themselves automatically.

“You’ll regret that when you see how ginger I am,” Mycroft murmured.

“I will never regret seeing you ginger, gorgeous,” Gregory replied, arms tightening briefly. It felt as though he was going to say something else; indeed, Mycroft held his breath, the moment perfect for _I love you_.

Neither spoke, and the opportunity slid quietly away, replaced by the contentment of post orgasmic cuddles.


	7. Chapter 7

“Gregory?” Mycroft said, on the fifth day. He was keeping better track this time, knowing they had a finite time together. The real world would intrude far too soon once again, but this time there was a timetable, and Mycroft was agonisingly aware of every day as it passed.

“Mmm?” Gregory asked. He was reading a copy of The Hobbit, a favourite of Mycroft’s that Gregory grumbled was too long and wordy, but had picked up anyway.

“We haven’t left the house in five days.”

Gregory looked up, then cocked his head and marked his page with one finger, closing the book around it. “I know.”

“It would be advisable for us to do so.”

“Yeah,” Gregory sighed, “I know.”

“I was wondering,” Mycroft said suddenly, “If you would like to see my country home.”

Gregory blinked at him. “Your what?”

“My country home. It’s small, but only two hours from here.” He twisted the tassel on his own bookmark; Anna Karenina was still toying with him, his Russia as rusty as it had been. “I thought perhaps a change of scenery for us both, and the opportunity to walk in relative quiet, might be….good.”

“’Good?”’ Gregory repeated, a slow grin crossing his face. “Mycroft Holmes, I can’t believe you used the word ‘good’.” His grin became affectionate as he poked Mycroft’s thigh with one toe. “Must be a serious offer, then.” When Mycroft squirmed, as he always did when Gregory proved that other people could make deductions, too, Gregory’s grin widened even further. “I’d love to. Can we leave today?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “The caretakers will have it ready for us this afternoon, if you wish.”

“Maybe,” Gregory hesitated, “it could be a good time for us to talk. About the future and stuff.”

“That idea had crossed my mind,” Mycroft admitted. The thought had occurred to him that Gregory might not want to sully the memories they’d made last time with a potentially disastrous conversation; a change of scenery might be just what they both needed to have a clear conversation. As terrifying as the idea was, it was unavoidable.

“Scares me a bit, where that conversation might end up,” Gregory said, so softly Mycroft almost missed it.

“Me too,” Mycroft told him with quiet relief.

They abandoned their books and held each other, kissing so carefully and gently Mycroft had to fight off the tears.

+++

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for them to organise themselves in the end – once they’d finally left the couch. That small moment of vulnerability had affected Mycroft deeply, and he found his awareness of Gregory unexpectedly intensified. While their need to be in the same room had waned with the passing days (and necessary bodily functions), it had returned with a vengeance in that moment. Neither mentioned it, but Gregory hung out in the kitchen while Mycroft called ahead, ordering a car and alerting the caretakers of their arrival. He’d considered taking his own car for about five seconds, until he realised he would have to concentrate on the road, without touching Gregory, for almost two hours. Preferring the safety of a driver, Mycroft called Anthea. Gregory, standing next to him, was interlacing their fingers, watching the digits slide past each other as Mycroft spoke; it was both distracting and lovely.

“Yes, I will be entirely unavailable until the end of next week,” Mycroft told her. He could hear the surprise and was impressed she did not give into the palpable urge to ask if he was alright. When he hung up the phone, Mycroft did not move, standing still to allow their hands to weave together.

“Another week off work, Mister Holmes,” Gregory said. His voice was complex with suppressed amusement, satisfaction and surprise.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He was watching the interplay of their fingers too; Gregory’s slow pace and unpredictability had not changed even as Mycroft gave their hands his full attention. With a burst of sudden honestly, Mycroft added, “I find my priorities have changed recently.” The hands stuttered, then fingers slid together, clutching firmly. Mycroft waited for Gregory to speak, but he remained silent for five long slow breaths before bringing Mycroft’s hand up to his lips and kissing each of the knuckles in turn.

“We should pack,” Gregory said, smiling at Mycroft in a way that made his heart flip. They packed together, quickly and efficiently, carting small suitcases downstairs. Gregory made food and beverages for the journey while Mycroft watched, content to drink in the quiet calm of Gregory’s movements.

“The car has arrived,” Mycroft said, when his phone buzzed.

“Perfect,” Gregory replied, picking up the tote bag of food and his suitcase.

The trip was uneventful. Gregory had asked where they were going, and Mycroft’s response (“You’ll see when we arrive,”) had been met with a look of resigned exasperation. It wasn’t until they had started heading properly south Gregory had started guessing, and Mycroft’s smug grin had grown with each wrong guess. Finally, they turned off the main road into a tiny village. Mycroft smiled at Gregory’s look of astonishment as they pulled up to a small cottage at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was right off an English postcard, with a thatched roof and roses climbing the walls.

“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes,” a voice greeted him, and Mycroft smiled at the young woman.

“Hello, Mrs. Pressmore,” he greeted her. “Thank you for having the house ready at such short notice.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ve stocked the fridge and left you the last of the vicarage honey and some fresh bread.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Please thank Reverend Johnson.”

“Will do. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

The young woman smiled at Gregory then climbed the stile and started across the field at the end of the lane.

“Caretaker?” Gregory asked. “She’s remarkably accommodating.”

“She’s paid to be so,” Mycroft told him. Driver dismissed, they took their bags inside, where Mycroft added, “Sarah is the Vicar’s daughter. She and her husband maintain this property for me.”

“She didn’t ask who I am.” Gregory remarked, and Mycroft sensed the question. He led them through to the kitchen in the back of the house, overlooking a walled garden.

“Sherlock has spent some time here.” Mycroft told Gregory as he filled the kettle. “Several times. He only agreed to come if I had no information about what he did while he was here.”

“Or who he was with,” added Gregory.

 “Precisely.” Mycroft agreed, preparing a tea tray with bread and honey, along with milk and sugar. “Sarah is the local nurse practitioner, which made her perfect for the job. She ensured that Sherlock was clean – my only stipulation – and in return, asked no questions about the visitors he may or may not have had while staying here. It appears to be a habit she has retained.”

He turned back to Gregory, adding, “To answer your unasked question, nobody outside Sherlock, Sarah and yourself know I own this property or have ever set foot inside.”

“Except Sherlock’s guests.”

“Thank you for that reminder, _Gregoire_.”

“Anytime, gorgeous.”

Mycroft was pleased Gregory accepted his word on the matter – it was true, of course, but almost impossible to prove. As the kettle boiled he made tea, and they talked of nothing in particular as they adjusted to the new surrounds.

“Okay, then,” Gregory said, pulling on Mycroft’s hand to make him stand. “I’m going to need the full tour. House and village, what do you think?”

Mycroft nodded. “House first?”

“Lead the way,” Gregory replied. They made their way through the hallway back to the study by the front door, opposite a living room. The fireplace was huge and Mycroft was pleased to set a fire had been laid. A small powder room was under the stairs. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom.

“A proper bath,” Gregory said. “I’m surprised the bathroom is big enough in a house this small.”

“I may have had a wall moved to ensure this would fit,” Mycroft admitted. “A small amount of engineering to ensure the floor would support the weight of a full bath, and it was complete.”

Gregory frowned. “How did you get it up here?” He stuck his head back out, eyeballing the width of the stairs. “Looks too wide for the stairs.”

“A small crane, the removal of some of the roof – it needed to be rethatched anyway…” Mycroft said, waving one hand as though it was nothing. He could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks.

“So you removed the roof, rented a crane, had reinforcing engineering installed and moved a wall. All so you could have a bath.” Gregory clarified.

“Well…yes.”

“That’s adorable,” Gregory murmured, taking Mycroft’s hands in his face and dropping a feather light kiss on his lips. “Remind me never to come between you and a bath.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said, melting into Gregory. Several moments later, the tour was complete. One quite small bedroom, some space having been sacrificed to the bath, and one quite large – obviously the master, Gregory could see.

“This place is great,” Gregory declared. “Very you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I just have one question.”

“Mmmm?” Mycroft asked, stepping into the inviting space between Gregory’s knees.

“Where the hell are we?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and leaning back, pulling Mycroft on top of him on the bed. When Mycroft had finished writhing, trying to free himself without much success or disappointment in the fact, they were lying on the bed together, faces close, fingers entwined.

“Cubby?” Gregory asked, and before Mycroft could ask what he meant, the detective sat up and tugged on the quilt folded at the foot of the bed, covering both of them, heads and all.

“Can I assume this is some kind of throwback, Gregory?” Mycroft asked. The light was muted now, but he could still see the sliver of Gregory’s face not draped with fabric or pressed into the mattress. It was probable he was smiling, though it was difficult to tell.

“Yeah,” Gregory replied. He leaned in to kiss Mycroft, and they traded soft kisses in the quiet. Mycroft felt like they were even more isolated, curled up together in bed hiding under the quilt like children. “Have I told you what a brilliant idea this was?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Feel free to do so, however.”

“Brilliant,” Gregory whispered against his lips. They kissed slowly, long and unhurried, hands pressed to faces. Their warm breath was trapped under the blanket with them, the dark humid environment cocooning them from the world. Eventually the kisses trailed off and they lay close, eyes wide to see each other in the gloom.

“Tanya and I used to play truth or dare under here after Mum had put us to bed,” Gregory told Mycroft.

“Truth.” Mycroft said.

“I’m glad we’re here and not in the city.” Gregory said. “You?”

“It feels different under here.” Mycroft said. The words felt juvenile but honest.

“We called it the blanket of truth,” Gregory said. “We were both too scared to ever do a dare.”

Mycroft smiled at the vision of a young Gregory cowed by the thought of his mum discovering his transgressions.

“I don’t want to go outside without you,” Gregory said.

“Me either,” Mycroft replied. “However we must. There will be less people here. It’s fairly quiet.”

“Where are we, anyway?” Gregory said. “You never answered.”

“Kingston, near Brighton,” Mycroft replied. “A short drive to the ocean, though far enough the crowds don’t adversely impact the town.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Gregory said. “You know you could have not told me?”

“You’re a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard, Gregory.” Mycroft pointed out. “I could hardly keep it a secret.”

“Well, yes,” Gregory replied. His silence was contemplative, so Mycroft declined to speak. When he finally did, it was a whisper. “I don’t know if I can keep doing it.” The pause was long and Mycroft almost spoke before Gregory clarified himself. “Working. At Scotland Yard. I don’t think…I don’t think I can.”

Mycroft considered the implications of that admission. “There are options,” he said carefully. “I mean, I have considered some possibilities, if you would like to hear them. It’s your decision of course,” he said quickly, “and I know we haven’t talked about where we stand yet, you and I, but you should know I will support you no matter what you decide.”

“Even if I decide to keep drinking and smoking and working a hundred hours a week?” Gregory asked. The humour in the question was lost in the sadness of his voice. Mycroft’s heart broke a little for him – he genuinely wanted to know.

“Blanket of truth,” Mycroft said seriously, watching as Gregory nodded. Mycroft took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I don’t know if I could stand by and watch you deliberately put yourself at such risk, knowing the likely outcome. I must admit I would probably do all I could to convince you to change your mind. But I would respect your decision, if that was the decision you made, and I would not use my influence to change anything without your permission.” It was the most honest Mycroft could be in the moment. Even the idea of Gregory throwing his hands up and continuing in his life, knowing the risks, made his heart stutter and his throat close in panic. Surely, that wasn’t an option for him? Surely, once Mycroft had presented his ideas, Gregory would chose life, would chose him… Gregory’s arms snaked around him, the hug clumsy with their bodies hampered by the quilt and the mattress below.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for being honest. I don’t want to stay in my job if it’s going to affect me so much.” He held Mycroft tightly again. “But I don’t know what else I can do,” he admitted into Mycroft’s neck. Holding Gregory, Mycroft knew this could be the start of a very long conversation. When Gregory finally loosened his hold, Mycroft shifted away a little. “Do you mind if I pull the quilt off? It’s quite warm under here now.”

A burble of laughter and Gregory scrabbled to do just that. They blinked in the light, the air cool on faces and lungs. “Sorry,” Gregory said.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. He looked at Gregory, long fingers gently wiping at the tears still clinging to impossibly long lashes. “We can start the conversation now, if you wish,” he said seriously, “however, I would suggest we take a short walk, make dinner then have an early night and instead converse over breakfast. It would give us the whole day, should we need so long.”

“That sounds great,” Gregory said.

Mycroft could see the apprehension in his eyes, and he shifted closer, kissing Gregory until his eyes closed, then trailing up, pressing a kiss to each eyelid. He tasted the salt of Gregory’s tears, then pressed his forehead against Gregory’s. “We don’t have to go out today, my dear,” he said quietly. The last thing he wanted to do was push Gregory. The idea of walking around the small village was only bearable because he could envisage it. Assuming Gregory had an equal apprehension his lack of knowledge must make it all the more difficult, and tomorrow’s conversation was likely to tax them emotionally. Mycroft wanted Gregory to have all the strength he could muster.

A sound rumbled in Gregory’s throat, and Mycroft paused his kisses, which had been forging a path along Greg’s hairline. The pause made Gregory chuckle, then speak. “You called me, ‘my dear,’” he said.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed cautiously. “Is that acceptable?” Little did Gregory know how close Mycroft had come to calling him…but it didn’t matter. Not yet.

“Very,” Gregory replied. “And if the alternative to going out is staying here, right here, with you and taking off all our clothes, I’d call that acceptable too.”

Mycroft smiled, his mouth still pressed against Gregory’s forehead. “Agreed.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft woke early the next morning, and it was a drowsy moment before he realised why. He tended to wake early on days he had significant meetings scheduled. The extra time in his morning routine allowed him to review the strategy, ensuring he was prepared for any potentially difficult moments that might arise. Obviously, his body had interpreted the impending conversation with Gregory as one of the same. Hence his 4.30am wake up.

Once he’d determined why he was awake, Mycroft’s mind began to think over his ideas and how to best present them to Gregory. It was only when he was trying to figure out how to convince Gregory of his preferred option Mycroft realised his brain was treating Gregory like a hostile opponent instead of an ally. Even that terminology sounded too clinical. Gregory was more than simply another individual with objectives that aligned to his own. He was a separate entity, and Mycroft knew he would never be easy knowing his influence had coerced Greg into a decision in which he was not entirely comfortable.

Mycroft simply needed to present his ideas. Gregory could make whatever decision he wanted and Mycroft would support it. The decision didn’t even have to be made today – and it probably wouldn’t, given the magnitude of the choice. It wasn’t Mycroft’s decision to make, as much as he would be affected by the outcome. As he shifted, Mycroft must have woken Gregory, who stirred, rubbing his eyes.

“Wha’time izit?” he mumbled.

“Early,” Mycroft replied quietly. “I will be back soon. Go back to sleep.”

Gregory mumbled something, but burrowed back into the blankets as Mycroft rose quietly and picked up his dressing gown and slippers. He visited the powder room downstairs in an effort not to wake Gregory and stepped into the kitchen by feel, finding the corner lamp to banish the darkness. The first time he’d stayed here the overhead lights had been far too harsh; this lamp was perfect for early mornings to which he was accustomed. Mycroft made a pot of tea, setting out two cups automatically, though Gregory was still in bed. The soft light showed off spirals of steam, and Mycroft found himself entranced by their slow dance in the cool morning air.

“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice from the door made him jump – he must have been deep in thought, Mycroft realised as his heat pounded and he tried to smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Gregory murmured. He still looked tired, Mycroft thought, even though they’d turned in quite early.

As he moved closer, Mycroft reached out to adjust the collar of the borrowed dressing gown, feeling the warmth of Gregory’s skin against his thumbs.

“Tea?” Mycroft asked, pouring still hot water when Gregory nodded. They took their cups to the table, adding lemon (Mycroft) and milk and sugar (Gregory). Mycroft found himself cradling his mug, enjoying the almost-burn of the hot china on his fingers.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mycroft said.

“Wasn’t really sleeping anyway,” Gregory admitted. The silence fell, the odd hush of the early morning not even broken by the birds as yet.

“Thinking?” Mycroft asked tentatively. Did Gregory want to start their conversation now?

“Thinking,” he confirmed. Mycroft watched him watch the steam, as fascinated by the mutable expression on his face as Gregory seemed to be with the steam. “It’s all really complicated,” Gregory said suddenly, “or simple. Depending on how you look at it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, though he wasn’t entirely sure what Gregory meant.

“The simple fact is, I can’t keep my job and realistically change what I need to.” Gregory said, the words bleak despite their apparent simplicity.

Mycroft didn’t speak.

“The complicated bit is everything else,” Gregory said with an attempt at a wry grin. It failed miserably and he took a sip of tea. His mug was shaking, Mycroft saw. “If I’m not…If I have to change jobs,” Gregory said, voice faltering, “I can’t afford to do nothing. I’m too young to retire, and the pension’s not much anyway, not if I’m only a Detective Inspector.” He swallowed hard before pushing on. “I still have bills and a life that will hopefully be long and healthy, even if I can’t afford to live it without a decent job. A decent job that doesn’t stress me out too much and lets me eat and sleep properly.” A humourless laugh at this. “Does that even exist?”

Mycroft waited again, but when Gregory didn’t speak, he asked carefully, “Are there any options you have considered that might work?” he hesitated before adding, “I have some ideas if you’d like to hear them.”

“I have no idea,” Gregory said, the wave of emotion carrying his voice. He swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. “Okay. Bear in mind that anything that starts with ‘So-and-so owes me a favour’, or ‘I have piles of money, come and spend it all’ will be met with a flat ‘no’.” He tried to smile, but Mycroft nodded gravely.

“I understand,” he said. “I have no intention of offering you charity, Gregory, though I would not view it as such. The kindness and compassion you have shown Sherlock alone would be reason enough for me to smooth your way.” He held up both hands as Gregory went to protest. “However, I would like you to know, with no expectation attached, that I do in fact have piles of money and you would be welcome to almost any sum you could name if it did allow you to live comfortably.”

Gregory snorted then made a ‘get on with it’ gesture. Mycroft counted it as a win that Gregory had listened without protest. At least he knew the offer stood.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “There are several options which I hope you might find acceptable,” he began. “They would result in you having varying levels of financial security, but all would allow you to live a significantly less stressed life than you do now.” He looked uncertainly at Gregory. “Would you prefer to hear them all at once, or consider each on its individual merits?”

“All at once,” Gregory said. His lip twitched as he added, “so I can get rid of the most ridiculous right away.”

Mycroft was glad to see he was making a joke, albeit a weak one. “Very well. Option one. We cite this illness as a direct result of the work you have been undertaking while seconded to MI5 and claim a disability pension, effective immediately. You would have the option of suing New Scotland Yard for its unsafe work environment and potentially walking away with a considerable pay out.”

When Gregory looked to protest, Mycroft held up one hand. “Option two. You claim unreasonable stress from your job – citing your recent stress-related illness – and take disability leave indefinitely. When you become eligible for a pension of acceptable magnitude, you retire and take it immediately.” Mycroft barrelled on before Gregory could speak. “Option three. You find another job which fits your criteria, potentially having to move out of London to do so. Option four,” this was where things started to skirt the edges of Gregory’s previous stipulations, “I can arrange for you to have an interview with MI5. I would have no influence over the outcome, however they are always looking for consultants with your background and experience. I understand their remuneration is generous and as a consultant you would have flexibility in your working hours. Option five: I employ you as my personal security. I know my remuneration is extremely generous, and the working conditions would be comfortable, to say the least.” There were several other options, but as they broadly fell under the banner of ‘pulling strings to help Gregory’, he didn’t bother presenting them. Better to have something to fall back on.

“Right,” Gregory said, sounding a little overwhelmed. “Christ, you have been thinking, haven’t you?” He drank some of his tea, looking thoughtful. “Well, I think I can rub out the disability pension option, I’d have to turn myself into the Fraud division it’s so dodgy.”

Mycroft shrugged. He’d expected no less from Gregory.

“I’m not too keen on the stress leave either, though if there’s nothing else, I suppose it’s closer to the truth.” He stared at Mycroft. “I’m guessing that would result in a bit of influence, given I’d be on stress leave for over a decade before I’d be eligible for a decent pension.”

“There would be some small suggestion to the Police Commissioner, yes,” Mycroft admitted.

“Mmmm,” Gregory hummed, clearly not buying Mycroft’s attempt to downplay his role. “Let’s keep that in reserve then, shall we?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said.

“I don’t fancy looking for a job,” Gregory said. “I’m just old enough to be too old for most things, and this,” he ruffled his silver hair, “doesn’t help when I’m trying to look young and employable.” He looked down, swirling the remaining tea in his mug. “Don’t fancy leaving London, either.”

Mycroft strove to keep the relief off his face. He had debated not presenting the idea at all, but in his epiphany this morning had realised it would be effectively controlling Gregory’s decision making. He dared not risk making Gregory feel manipulated. It was more than fear of the consequences, however. He wanted Gregory to make the best choice, the one with which he was the most comfortable, and by default, that meant displaying as many options as Mycroft had at his disposal. Offering him support and love, even if the latter was not yet explicitly presented, and supporting whatever choice he made – whether Mycroft approved or not. It was a frightening decision for one as used to influence as Mycroft, and yet he felt at peace with it in a strangely unfamiliar way.

“So that basically leaves MI5 or you as my employer,” said Gregory.

“Of the options I presented, yes,” Mycroft agreed. “Though there would be no guarantee with MI5. Unless you would prefer the certainty, of course.”

“I thought we already decided that?” Gregory asked.

“You made your position clear,” Mycroft allowed. “I did not agree to stop offering to help in any capacity.” he kept his face calm, but there was an edge of frustration to his voice that he could not hide. This was the one thing he could do to help, and Greg would not even consider the smallest of nudges! It would not even cost him a favour. But it was Gregory’s decision and Mycroft had to let him be.

“Okay.” Gregory said. “Now, I’m not going to make a decision right now. But I’d want to know more about this thing with MI5, and with working for you.” He grinned a bit. “Don’t forget I’ll have to be able to tell my mother, so let’s not make my title anything too embarrassing, okay?”

“I can put you in touch with the head of recruitment at MI5,” Mycroft said, ignoring the joke. “Once you’ve spoken to him I doubt he’ll even need the suggestion from me to bring you in for an interview. You’ll have to have an idea of what hours you’d want, and pay is negotiable, I understand. As for entering my employment,” Mycroft said, “I have been considering the possibility of retaining personal security due to the attention of charming people with whom Sherlock seemed determined to associate. You would be perfectly qualified for the job, both professionally and personally.”

Gregory’s look was assessing. “How would Anthea feel about that?” he asked.

Mycroft stared. “How would her response have any bearing on my decision?”

“She works for you, Mycroft!”

“Well, yes, but-“

“Anyone you hire to work so closely with you will also be working with her. She will have to get along with them, at least a bit. So it would probably be, I dunno, politically savvy to ask her opinion.”

Mycroft was still staring at Gregory. “So does this mean you will consider my offer?”

Gregory looked confused for a moment, then his face cleared. “That was very sneaky, you know,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft replied.

“I can’t make a decision now,” Gregory said. “But thank you. I really appreciate how much you’ve thought about this.”

“I want you to be happy,” Mycroft said quietly. “And alive.”

“I want me to be alive, too,” chuckled Gregory. He looked outside, where the sky was lightening into day. “Maybe we should get dressed and go for a walk?”


	9. Chapter 9

Their first walk together was something of an anti-climax. It was midmorning, the day overcast and windy, discouraging casual wandering. Once they had dressed and breakfasted on more of the excellent local bread and honey, Gregory had borrowed a scarf and both had donned the boots waiting in the mudroom. Scant talk and tiny smiles emphasised the anxious air.

“Ready?” Mycroft asked.

“I think I should be reassuring you, shouldn’t I?” Gregory half-joked.

“Perhaps we both need the reassurance,” Mycroft conceded. He kissed Gregory softly, pulling back to look deeply into his eyes before they opened the door. Another fleeting moment where _I love you_ seemed to hang in the air for anyone to catch and claim the words. Another missed chance, as the wind caught the partly open door and banged it open.

In the end, they’d met precious few people as they walked around the small village. Mycroft took Gregory to see the Church dedicated to St. Barnabas and along the high street, where they bought coffee in takeaway cups, steam rising in curling tendrils before being whipped away. The few people they did see were content to smile and walk on, some clutching at bags or coats, determined to defy the unwelcoming wind. Mycroft had taken a moment before they left to ensure his mental protection was in place; he would be at little risk of the same overwhelming barrage as the last time he was out. Now, walking along a quiet road, he conceded Gregory’s presence might have something to do with that. He was introspective today, smiling at Mycroft’s slightly nervous chatter as he played tour guide, making interested noises and asking some questions. The comfort of his hand in Mycroft’s was immense and grounding. Simply having the freedom to do so, without the fear of scandal or rumour affecting either of their working lives was remarkable.

After a while they had made a thorough tour of the village, and found themselves back on the road to home. Neither spoke, yet they turned down the short path to Mycroft’s door, Gregory’s fingers slipping out of his as they single filed through the door and into the entranceway. As the door clicked closed, Mycroft’s eyes met Gregory’s. As one, they exhaled as though a weight was off their respective chests.

Both smiled, then chuckled.

“The first was always going to be the hardest,” Gregory said into Mycroft’s shoulder. As in so many things this morning, they’d moved together as one without speaking, the accord of their bodies a perfect harmony.

“I am so proud of you,” Mycroft whispered. He frowned, realising how patronising that might sound, and made a huff of annoyance at himself. “I simply mean, you have faced the last few weeks with such strength when you might so easily have fallen apart.” _As I did_. The unsaid words were a clear coda.

Gregory squeezed him in response. “Having you here helps. Makes me stronger,” he said, voice still muffled. “I know what you mean. Thanks.”

They held each other a moment longer, swaying together, this otherwise unremarkable mid-morning moment suddenly imbued with tenderness and significance. The words hung again on the very edge of Mycroft’s lips, and he could not envisage a scenario in which Gregory would not want to hear them, and yet his courage failed him.

“I’m hungry,” Gregory said suddenly. He pulled away a little, eyes sweeping over Mycroft. “Tea and toast in bed?”

Mycroft screwed up his nose. “Crumbs, Gregory.”

“Okay, toast, then tea in bed,” Gregory amended, and Mycroft smiled at him. “Perfect,” he replied, ignoring the pang that told him he’d missed another chance.

+++

That day set the precedent for the next few days. They would rise early, usually dictated by Mycroft’s body clock. Sometimes they would lie in bed, talking or making love; other times it was early morning tea and toast downstairs. When Gregory discovered the bakery, their routine accommodated another alternative – rising early and waiting for the bakery to open, drinking tea and eating whatever was most recently out of the oven. The baker was nice enough, happy to greet them without wanting to stay and chat – there was a business to run, after all. It was perfect for Gregory and Mycroft. Once breakfast was over they would walk around the town, increasingly comfortable seeing people and being on the street together, before returning home (via the bakery for Gregory and the newsagent for Mycroft).

Their hours at home were not unlike those in London; books and tea, intimate bodies and conversations in equal measure. Gregory had debated with Mycroft the pros and cons of his decision to leave the force, and to Mycroft’s immense relief, had decided to interview with MI-5 and see where it led. Certain they would jump at the chance to employ Gregory, Mycroft had kissed him spontaneously at the announcement, filled to the brim with happiness that Gregory had decided to take care of his body and leave his stressful job.

It felt like he had chosen life.

It felt like he had chosen Mycroft.

The days melted into each other, and Mycroft knew he should be keeping track, but somehow in the haze of tea and books and sex, time scurried away from him.

Until it caught him up.

One morning – the bakery had Gregory’s favourite raspberry and dark chocolate croissants – Gregory had wandered over to the newsagent, returning with a paper for Mycroft. Strangely, Mycroft remembered the flakes of pastry clinging to Gregory’s chin in that moment. The last moment before…

“Look at this!” Gregory said, oblivious to the crumbs on his face. Expecting to be directed to the headline, Gregory’s finger instead pointed to the date. Mycroft blinked. “That can’t be right,” he said. He turned to Gregory. “How many days have we been here?”

“No idea,” Gregory admitted. “I lost count somewhere after we arrived, really.” He grinned at Mycroft, oblivious to the weight that had just settled in Mycroft’s stomach. “World keeps turning, even with us two down here, hey?”

It was little more than an off handed comment, and Gregory did not notice Mycroft mentally fade away as he considered the notion. He followed Gregory, half-listening to the chatter about football results as Gregory devoured the sports pages.

The idea had occurred to Mycroft before, of course, but this time it felt different. It took most of the stroll back home for him to put his finger on it. If he added the time they had been under effective house arrest at his flat to the time they had spent here, it was over a month. Well over a month. And the world had kept turning. Someone else was doing his job – more than one someone, probably. It was more confronting than Mycroft had thought it would be, facing it without deferring the idea, without pushing it to the side in favour of more interesting activities. Though he carried the line that nobody was irreplaceable, a part of him always considered himself above that trite phrase. Clearly, his combination of skills and experience raised him up above it all.

When they arrived home, Mycroft made tea by rote, murmuring something about a bath to Gregory, who was still reading the newspaper. The china was hot on his fingertips as he picked it up and turned to climb the stairs. Mycroft made it no further than sitting on the closed seat of the toilet, trying to figure out what was going on. His head was fuzzy, but none of the other usual symptoms were evident. It wasn’t a panic attack. This was not something from which he needed to escape; it was linked to the unanticipated change in his identity crashing down around his ears. For many years he had idolised men in his position, had worked tirelessly to emulate them. He had _become_ the British Government, prepared to sacrifice for Her Majesty’s empire, convinced that he, unlike everyone else, was preventing the empire from crumbling to dust.

He was wrong.

Should he care to, Mycroft could peruse the newspaper downstairs and identify the hallmarks of each of his colleagues on a dozen news items of varying importance. Few would be completed with his finesse, but all would be considered successes. With a jerk, Mycroft saw the face of Her Majesty in a conversation they had had the previous winter, while he had been outlining the new protocols in place to protect her person. She had thanked him, and he had ventured a personal comment, commending her on her stalwart attitude.

“Mycroft,” she had said – she had used his first name, a curtesy not extended to him, though he would never have entertained the idea anyway, “Should I die tomorrow, the Empire will continue. She will be different, weaker in some areas, stronger in others, but overall, She will endure.”

At the time he had thought it a remarkably humble attitude for someone whose position was unequalled in the Empire. Now, he suddenly wondered if she had been speaking to him on a more personal level. For if the Empire would endure without Her Monarch, surely the loss of Mycroft Holmes would be but a blip on the radar. The message resonated with him, a gentle reminder that above all things, he was a man. A fragile human, as likely to die from something as unstoppable as a stroke as anyone else.

An irrational shot of fear causes him to open the door and call, “Gregory?”

The answering, “Yeah? You alright?” soothed his jangling nerves.

“Yes! My apologies for disturbing you,” Mycroft replied, closing the door and sinking down once again on the toilet.

Clarity began to wash over Mycroft, opening his eyes to a breath-taking extent. He considered the lifestyle habits Doctor Phelps had implored Gregory to change. Sleeping, eating, smoking, drinking. Exercise. Well, at least that was one he could claim, though their gentle strolls around the village did not compare to his running. He didn’t eat badly – when he did eat, but considered objectively, Mycroft’s work impacted his lifestyle as much as Gregory’s did. He slept poorly and nowhere near as much as he should. He stopped counting at 15 standard drinks per week, and it was certain that Anthea knew how much he smoked (there had been cigarettes in the groceries she had delivered to his flat, along with the lube. Mycroft had hidden the cigarettes and taken the lube). Pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Mycroft stood up, suddenly restless. He stood in front of the sink, leaning on his hands, pressing his forehead into the cool mirror. How had he not seen it? But for the love of angels, their cook would have said. But for the love of angels, it would have been he collapsing in his lover’s arms, he facing an increased possibility of stroke unless his life changed dramatically.

Worse, it would have been Gregory feeling so helpless. Watching his confusion, seeing him slide slowly to the floor, not knowing if he would live or die... Mycroft shook his head, desperately trying to clear the images of Gregory on his bathroom floor, of the agonising wait in the hospital, begging to a God he never believed in to swoop in and save the day. As if an all-powerful deity would want anything a desperate Gregory Lestrade could offer.

He could not allow that to happen. All those minutes, hours perhaps, he had spent in the waiting room at the hospital, begging God, any God, to help him, offering all he had and more in exchange for Gregory’s life, and now he was being presented the chance. The opportunity to safeguard Gregory from the agony of that terrible unknown. He remembered the confusion, the fear on Gregory’s face as he fell in the bathroom, jaw slack on one side as he tried to speak. The details were not entirely clear, but an overarching sense of dread permeated that memory, and those that came after. Did he really mean it, or were his words as meaningless as the political niceties on which his career had been built? Was this something he was prepared to sacrifice for, really sacrifice? Not the sacrifice of nameless people, the balance of ‘some’ versus ‘many’, but a momentous change in his own life, taking away the thing he had long valued above all else.

The thing he _had_ long valued above all else.

But that was no longer true. Mycroft had yearned towards power and position, had worked hard for most of his adult life, had revelled in it while he had it. And he still bore it – a few days back at work would re-establish his position – but now it rang hollow.

He now had more. Far more than he had ever hoped, had ever dreamed might come his way.

Gregory.

It was simple, he thought. Gregory was right. When stripped of the complications, it was simple, just as Gregory had pointed out. The other details were just that. Details. Some would be easier and some would be harder, but they would fall into place once Mycroft had made one simple decision. Gregory was the thing he valued above all else.

The loss of anything else would not be a sacrifice. It would be a privilege.

If Mycroft was to keep Gregory, to keep him safe from the pain he himself had experienced, he must change. Follow the guidelines set out as for Gregory, whatever the cost, because when it came down to it, Gregory was worth more. He was worth everything.

It was only now, with the unassailable truth in his heart that his lifestyle must change so drastically, Mycroft understood what Gregory had been enduring. He knew, _knew_ , there was no way to scale back his work in a way that would allow him to sleep more, drink less, smoke less. His work was his life, his core identity, the measure of his success in life; and now he was facing the harsh reality. If he wanted to continue his life, he had no choice but to change the most defining characteristic of himself. The strangest thing about all this was the sense of calm that took him over. It was as though this was too big for him to panic about it; there was only one thing that could help, and even then, it could not alter the truth.

Gregory.

 _Gregoire_.

He was so much more important than Mycroft’s job.

Without another thought, Mycroft stood up and walked downstairs. Gregory looked up as he approached, then did a double take at the look on his face.

“Mycroft?” he asked, standing up, ignoring the newspaper as it fluttered in single sheets to the floor. “What’s wrong, gorgeous?”

“We need to talk,” Mycroft found himself saying. His heart was beating fast, but he felt removed, at peace and like a spectator.

Gregory’s face was impassive as he searched Mycroft’s eyes. He nodded, folding up his newspaper and offering the seat opposite his own. Mycroft sat heavily, wondering how to best explain his realisation.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “About what your doctor said. The lifestyle changes she suggested for you.”

“Right,” replied Gregory cautiously.

“They are as applicable to my life as to yours, Gregory.” Mycroft heard Gregory’s intake of breath at this statement. It was the first indication of where Mycroft was going with this conversation and Gregory had proved himself quick to follow.

“Yeah, I guess they are,” Gregory replied. “But I’m just a DI, plenty of us around. There’s only one of you.”

“I have been absent for over a month, Gregory.” He could see that Gregory did not really understand the enormity of the statement. “Gregory. Before this all happened, I had not taken more than six, perhaps seven days leave from my employment in the fifteen years I had been employed.”

“What in total?” Gregory asked, surprise in his voice.

Mycroft nodded. “Each of those days was either sick leave, in which I worked from home, or Christmas at my parent’s home.”

“In which you worked from their house, I’ll bet,” Gregory added with a half-smile.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied without irony. “Without trying to sound too vain, I am the most skilled…employee of Her Majesty’s government. My point is I had come to consider myself indispensable. While contingencies had been planned for, none were to have me so completely isolated for such a period of time. As luck would have it, I have been absent for over a month without the demise of the Commonwealth. Or the world.”

“So…you’ve realised you should take all your holidays, then,” Gregory said uncertainly. “Or are you considering…fuck, what are you saying, Mycroft?”

“I would no more be capable of performing my job part time or within constrictive hours than you would,” Mycroft said quietly. “I found myself wondering how it might impact you, should I suffer a stroke. It was…not pleasant.”

“Oh, Mycroft,” Gregory sighed. “It’s not that likely, you know…”

“You heard Doctor Phelps,” Mycroft replied. “Men like you, like me, who cope with their stressful jobs by eating and sleeping poorly and drinking too much. I am just as much at risk as you are.”

“So what, you’re going to quit your job too?” Gregory asked, the joke falling flat when Mycroft did not laugh. “Bloody hell. Are you serious?”

Mycroft nodded. “It seems the only reasonable security.”

“Against what?” frowned Gregory.

“Against your pain,” Mycroft said simply. “Perhaps I am presuming too much, but if you would suffer a fraction as much as I did…” his voice faltered. “I would not wish that on you, Gregory.”

“Mycroft,” Gregory breathed. “I don’t…I mean, I would hate that, God, it must have been awful, I’m so sorry…”

“No, Gregory, it is precisely that experience that has helped me to this realisation. Without it I would not be able to fathom the potential depths of your despair. I am presuming a lot, I know, but it seems to me we see eye to eye when it comes to this relationship.” Mycroft swallowed hard. “Without being there, I would not know what it was I wanted to protect you from.” He held himself back from reaching across the table. “You are worth more to me than anything. Certainly more than my job.” He tried to smile, but it faltered. “Especially as I’ve been proved quite dispensable over the last few months. It would not be a hardship, Gregory.”

“Christ,” Gregory muttered, running one hand over his head. “I don’t want you to do this for me. I mean I do want you to be safe, I want you to be happy, but I don’t want…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to do this just because of me. I don’t…what if you resent me later?” He attempted a laugh. “When I’m old and fat and boring…”

“You could never be,” Mycroft protested. “I told you earlier that my priorities had shifted.” His heart was beating hard now as he realised he had to be honest. Frighteningly, brutally honest. With a shaking hand he reached out, gratified when Gregory reached back, clutching at his hand, weaving their fingers tightly together.

“I want to be with you,” Mycroft told him. “I don’t need to work. Financially, I mean. I’ve always chosen to.” He frowned as he made a connection. “I had no options. I mean, nothing in competition, nothing against which to compare it. Nothing that _could_ be more important. But now I realise I do. I have something far more important. You were right. It’s all very simple.” He took a deep breath and looked into Gregory’s wide eyes. “I love you, Gregory. And I chose you.” When Gregory didn’t reply, Mycroft felt his delicate confidence deflate. Had he misread the situation? He’d thought they were so close – _he’d_ been so close to saying it certainly, but maybe that was how it felt, being close to someone after a short while. Goodness knew it was longer than he’d been intimate with anyone, certainly in the emotional way he and Gregory had experienced. What if-

“I love you too,” Gregory blurted finally. “Christ Mycroft,” he took a shuddering breath inwards.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft burst out, still on the edge of panicking, not understanding Gregory’s response.

“No, no, no,” Gregory blurted over him, “No, Mycroft. I’m just…wow, that was incredible, what you said. Are you sure? I mean really sure, I don’t want…”

“You already said that,” Mycroft told him, the panic beginning to subside as he understood. Gregory was just as overwhelmed as he was. Neither of them was communicating particularly well.

“Fuck,” Gregory said.

“I don’t…I want to.” Mycroft said simply. “I don’t know yet if I can. How I can.” He attempted a smile. “I do have quite a high security clearance. I don’t know how it would work.”

“Well yeah, I mean you’d retire eventually, though,” Gregory said. “What would happen then?”

Mycroft shrugged, the wry smile coming far more easily than the genuine had. “Retirements are fairly rare.” At Gregory’s confused face he added as delicately as possible, “Most agents do not reach retirement age, for one reason or another. It is more common for agents to be…relocated if they are no longer effective.”

“Assuming they survive that long, right?” Gregory said, and Mycroft was relieved that he had at least some insight into the harsh world Mycroft worked in.

“So you’ll be thinking about it, then?” Gregory asked.

“I will make a decision before we leave for London,” Mycroft said. “The day after tomorrow.” In his heart he knew what his decision would be, but he did not want to appear too hasty.

“There’s something more,” Gregory said, narrowing his eyes at Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged, an uncommon gesture for him. “Perhaps,” he said, not intending to be deliberately obtuse. He dropped his eyes to the table, missing the warmth and contact of Gregory’s hands when they were carefully untangled and left Mycroft’s field of view. Thirty seconds later, a bottle of Scotch and two glasses dropped onto the table.

“It’s after midday,” Gregory said, checking his watch, “only just.” He poured them each a generous measure. “Come on. Let’s drink to decisions, and honesty, and anything else that will loosen your tongue.” Before Mycroft could object, Gregory emptied his glass. “We’ve had enough keeping things back, Mycroft. Have a drink with me. We’ll salute the end of our irresponsible days if you like, and you can tell me what else is running through your head.”

Of its own accord, Mycroft’s hand snuck out and before he knew it his throat was burning with the rich taste of very good Scotch drunk far too fast.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg was relieved when Mycroft finally accepted the Scotch. Small steps, Greg, he’d told himself. Mycroft’d come in and dropped a huge bombshell, then retreated back into his head. Patience on both sides had finally brought them to an understanding – a poorly expressed, stumbling understanding – but there was something else. Greg could see it in his eyes. Something was gnawing at Mycroft, and Greg was determined not to sit back and let Mycroft decide when to tell him.

Look where that had gotten them the first time.

This time Greg was going to push. Not too hard, but a gentle pressure, reading Mycroft all the while, supporting and loving him (he could say it now). They needed this, the free exchange of thoughts and ideas, but it did not come easily to Mycroft. Greg could see it. He knew he had to be firm and show Mycroft he could be trusted, that he would be patient with him.

Whatever it was, the thing that was on his mind, Mycroft wasn’t comfortable with it. From what he’d said about this revelation – that he, too should leave his ridiculously high stress job – the solution was clear in his mind. The decision, though, was more difficult. Something was preventing him choosing the answer he knew was right. It sounded as though financial matters weren’t really a consideration, and Greg was at a loss. He didn’t want to make any assumptions about what was going through Mycroft’s mind. They’d already established how important communication was – and after such a drawn out struggle to get to here, Greg was not going to risk messing this up by not trying hard enough.

“Shall I hazard a guess?” Greg said, pouring them both a second measure of Scotch. Doctor Phelps would shudder at this, but he was determined to wring the answer from Mycroft, and if it took a reasonable amount of excellent booze, so be it. This would be the last time Greg drank so much; he already knew returning to London would be the beginning of the changes his doctor had suggested.

Greg hummed to himself theatrically, waiting until he had Mycroft’s attention before launching into his first guess. “You use your position to protect Sherlock. Is there something in there about leaving him to his own devices?” The startled look from Mycroft told Greg he had been right on the money. “I knew that was part of it,” Greg said smugly. “Shall I go on, or should we address them one at a time?”

“All at once,” Mycroft said finally, “so I may dismiss the most ridiculous immediately.”

Greg recognized the paraphrase of his own words and felt himself relax a little. If Mycroft was cracking jokes – and from him, that counted as a joke – he must be at least a little bit okay.

“Alright,” Greg said, settling into his task. “You don’t have to explain. Just tell me if anything I say is true, even a little bit.” He saw Mycroft’s tense shoulders relax a little at the idea, and he nodded.

“So the Sherlock thing is a bit of it?” Greg repeated.

Mycroft nodded. Yes.

“Okay. What else have I got?” Greg sipped at his drink, savouring it far more than the first measure. “Your parents would be disappointed.”

A shake of Mycroft’s head. No.

“Anthea would be out of a job.”

“Hardly.” Mycroft couldn’t help himself. “She has quite the security clearance on her own merits.”

“Noted,” Greg replied dryly. “Moving on. Um, you said you’re pretty well off, but perhaps the job allows for perks?”

Shake. No.

“Diogenes Club membership depends on your employment?”

A raised eyebrow, a slightly amused quirk of his mouth at the suggestion. No, then.

“Your social status at the club would suffer?”

A considered tilt, then slight nod.

“So yes that’s true, but not a consideration.” Greg checked.

Definitive nod. Correct, then.

Interesting, Greg thought. He really was becoming quite good at reading Mycroft’s subtle mannerisms.

“Okay.” Greg collected himself. “We mustn’t have hit on the main reason.”

Definite shake. No.

“Right then.” His face grew more serious. “Is there a possibility you’d be in personal danger if you resigned? More than now, I mean?”

Another thinking pause, then a shake. No.

“Would you have to hire personal security?”

Nod. Yes.

“Witness protection, or whatever?”

A shake, to Greg’s relief. No.

“What about…would you be bored, gorgeous?”

Mycroft tilted his head again and shrugged.

Greg verbalised Mycroft’s response, studying his face for confirmation. “Don’t know yet. Fair enough.”

Mycroft’s eyes settled on him again, patient as he allowed Greg thinking time. God, those eyes, Greg thought. So full of love and trust. _Trust…_

“What will happen when you resign?” Greg asked suddenly. “Do you know?”

Mycroft’s eyes changed, the trust replaced with apprehension. He shook his head. No.

“Is that…does that worry you?” Greg asked carefully.

Nod. Yes.

“A lot?”

Another nod, the eyes now full of something else. Fear? Not quite. Not quite as acute as fear, but there was a level of disquiet nonetheless.

“It’s not what happens with work, is it?” Greg said with a sudden and complete certainty. “It’s me. Us. You think I’ll see you differently.”

The wide eyes were all the answer he needed, but the miniscule nod confirmed it anyway.

“You’re worried that if we do this, something might change.”

The nod Mycroft gave was the smallest Greg had ever seen. It was heartbreakingly overshadowed by the complex look upon his face. There was discomfort still, though more pronounced, Greg’s eyes saw as they roved over the pale face. It was tinged with sharper anxiety and sadness. He was more than worried, Greg realised. He had already started to prepare for what he obviously thought was the inevitable breakdown of their relationship. Greg’s heart thudded against his chest at the despair he spied on Mycroft’s face. It had been hiding behind the other emotions, but the grey eyes couldn’t hold it back. If he did nothing else for the rest of his life, Greg thought spontaneously, he wanted to banish that expression from Mycroft’s face forever.

“I’ve heard there’s a guy at MI-5 that’s looking for people,” Greg said lightly, hoping the joke would ease Mycroft’s fear. “No promises, mind, but I know someone that could get you an interview.” He watched Mycroft’s face slip from the tension of earlier into something softer.

“Really,” Mycroft’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Good conditions, then?”

“Choose your hours, maybe your own commissions,” Greg told him. The idea had started as a bit of a joke, something to lighten the mood, but he was beginning to see the benefits. Mycroft was not someone to sit around on an endless holiday, and neither was Greg. If they both chose MI-5, it sounded as though they could have at least some say over how much they worked.

“I don’t care if you want to retire to the countryside to raise vegetable marrows, Mycroft,” Greg told him. “I’m not interested in you for anything outside your suits.” He saw Mycroft’s expression change and realised what he’d said. “Fuck. That’s not what I meant.” He grinned as Mycroft gave him a finely raised eyebrow over faintly amused eyes. “You know damn well what I meant. I love the suits, and what’s under them, but your job does not define you, Mycroft Holmes. If you want to do nothing, fine. You can make me breakfast before I go to work.”

Mycroft smiled, but did not reply. He toyed with his glass, watching the liquid tip as he tilted the glass. “We’re not…it’s not exactly right. What you’re saying.” Eyes resolutely on his glass – nervous. Uncertain.

Greg nodded. “Go on. I want to understand.”

There was a long pause while Mycroft thought. Greg waited, enjoying the silence, the stillness of the house as though it too was awaiting Mycroft’s reply. “If you were to resign from Scotland Yard,” Mycroft said finally, “and take up a position at MI-5, for example, your life would be…independent.”

Greg frowned. “Of what?” he asked.

“Of me.” Mycroft replied calmly. As Greg’s mind stuttered, Mycroft continued. “You would, in theory, be able to continue without me, if necessary. On the other hand, were I to resign from my job – whatever that might look like afterwards, though I suspect there would be an element of surveillance and personal security involved,”  
 he took a deep breath and finally raised his eyes to meet Greg’s, “my life would be centred around you.”

The phrase was simple and stark, and Greg understood immediately. His heart stuttered and swelled at the trust Mycroft was putting in him. He was preparing to turn away from the work to which he’d devoted his life, placing his future in Greg’s hands. Mycroft was considering this monumental change for Greg and there was a seed of doubt there, which was understandable.

But he was still considering it.

“And what if I wasn’t there.” Greg filled in the unsaid words, his voice flat.

Mycroft nodded, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “You would be free to change your mind, of course – I would never stoop to emotional blackmail. It is important, however for you to know that I am…highly invested. In this.”

“As am I,” Greg said quietly, unconsciously copying Mycroft’s formal phrasing. “And, I mean – you’d…what would you do? You wouldn’t be able to just sit around all day while I’m at work.”

Greg could see the conflict between a further serious comment and the kind of light quip that would turn the tone of their conversation.

Eventually, Mycroft spoke. “Surely not,” Mycroft said with mild faux shock. “If I’m not working, neither are you, Gregory.”

Greg rolled his eyes, taking the conversational lead Mycroft had offered. “I’ve told you, I don’t want to spend all your money, Mycroft.”

Mycroft snorted at that, a surprisingly indelicate sound, Greg thought. “I would be quite amused to see you try, Gregory.” When Greg didn’t answer, his face must have shown his confusion. “Perhaps I haven’t mentioned exactly how wealthy my family is. Have you never wondered how Sherlock manages to dress so well and make rent on a Zone 1 flat while working sporadically at best and often for free?”

Greg blinked. He had sometimes wondered, but had assumed Mycroft was supplementing his income. “No,” he answered now, knowing Mycroft could read the truth on his face. “Okay, yes,” he amended, if only to remove the disbelief from Mycroft’s face.

“We could both live extremely comfortably without ever needing to work,” Mycroft said now. “Having said that, if you choose to work I would be pleased to support your decision.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. “I don’t think I’d know what do to with myself if I never worked.” He lifted his glass only to find it empty once more. Mycroft’s was empty too, so Greg poured them each another large drink before twisting the lid and returning the bottle to the liquor cabinet. Christ, he was drunker than he thought, clutching at the table as it swayed a little.

“So,” Greg said, picking up his glass and raising it to Mycroft. “Here’s to making difficult choices and supporting each other and…” he trailed off, there was something else. “Oh, and your suits.” He beamed at Mycroft, who let out a startled laugh at the last addition.

“My suits?” Mycroft asked.

“Not to mention what’s under them,” Greg leered, raising and lowering his eyebrows suggestively. When Mycroft snorted again, Greg carefully clinked their glasses before downing his in one go. God, why did he keep doing that, he thought, wincing at the burn in his throat.

“It’s a good thing you have other skills, Gregory,” Mycroft said, mimicking him and dropping his own glass to the table with a bang, “because drunken seduction is not your forte.”

“Oh it’s not,” Greg replied, grinning. “Should I show you what is?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Mycroft replied as Greg struggled to stand up without holding onto the table.

“How strong is that Scotch?” Greg asked. He didn’t hear Mycroft’s answer. The question had been largely rhetorical anyway, and his mouth was suddenly very dry, necessitating a lot of water. Turning back to lean against the sink, he grinned at Mycroft. They’d covered a lot of ground this afternoon, and even though there were still some decisions to be acted on, he thought they were on the same page.

“I think I should put you to bed, my drunken friend,” Greg said, smirking as Mycroft stood too quickly, gripping the table.

“Friend?” Mycroft retorted through gritted teeth. “Have I been downgraded so readily?”

“Never,” Greg whispered, moving forward to catch Mycroft, the two of them grabbing drunkenly at each other. “You are far more important to me.” He smiled at Mycroft and the slightly fuzzy smile in return felt like a million pounds.

Which, he thought blearily, helping Mycroft collapse onto the couch, Mycroft very probably has in his bank account. Bloody hell.

+++

The rest of that afternoon was passed dozing on the couch, drowsing through long hours, waking enough for soft kisses and murmured endearments before drifting off again. Eventually, as the light faded outside, Greg made strong tea and plain toast, and they ate from one plate, chasing the food with aspirin and pints of water. Conversation was minimal and quiet, the close atmosphere drawing them together in the warm circle of light from the corner lamp. When crumbs had been chased from lips and water glasses had been drained, they retired upstairs. There had been many nights he’d tumbled into bed not entirely sober, both with and without a partner, but this was by far the best, Greg thought contentedly. He snuggled into Mycroft’s arms, ignoring his inner voice snigger at his use of the word ‘snuggle’.

“’Love you, My,” Greg murmured, teetering on the edge of sleep.

“My?” Mycroft protested, the words flitting over Greg’s collarbone.

“My. My My,” Greg repeated, half a smile dancing across his face before it faded.

He didn’t hear Mycroft’s grumble roll into an accepting sigh, but it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following and kudos-ing and commenting, everyone. This little fic was meant to be fairly short and possibly crack-y, but now it's far more than that. I love what it's become, and it's all down to you for reading and squee-ing and asking what else happens. So thank YOU for encouraging my muse to do her thing.
> 
> Right, onwards...  
> So, Greg and Mycroft have successfully negotiated their relationship in the real world. As tentatively pleased as they are with their decisions, how will everyone else react once they've heard the news?
> 
> Free Pardon, the final part of this trilogy, will begin publication on Friday. This Friday!
> 
> Bonus points to anyone who picks the Hercule Poirot reference in this last chapter. <3<3 <3


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